


The Breath Of All Things

by KismetJeska



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Car Accidents, Community: deancasbigbang, Depression, Disability, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 65,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KismetJeska/pseuds/KismetJeska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester was twenty-six years old when a car accident killed his father and left him paralysed from the waist down. A year and a half later, Dean is in a wheelchair and lives in a care home in Kansas, where he spends his days waiting to die. It's only when Castiel Novak starts volunteering at the care home that Dean starts to wonder if a changed life always equals a ruined one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  This is my entry for the DeanCas Big Bang 2013. I was paired with the wonderful artist, [ifyouask](http://ifyouask.livejournal.com), whose work for this piece you can find [here](http://ifyouask.livejournal.com/803.html). A thousand 'thank you's to her, and to my flawless betas [Lis ](http://clotpoleofthelord.tumblr.com)and [Rachel](http://eversocalmlypanicking.tumblr.com).
> 
> See the end of the work for disclaimers/ explanations about certain things. A few notes, though- this is a human AU, set in an adult care home. Nothing supernatural exists, and here Jo and Ellen are not related. 
> 
> As is becoming customary with my writing, this fic has a playlist. You can download that [here](https://www.dropbox.com/sh/hr93agpo7h6tw29/_h5GB9AIsQ).
> 
> The wonderful [Riley](http://chubdean.tumblr.com) made a TBOAT inspired song! You can listen [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uu6sBiTJ0_Y&feature=youtu.be).

Dean thinks that even if he was knocked out, taken a thousand miles away and kept in a cellar for twenty years, he’d still be able to draw a complete diagram of his bedroom from memory.

He’d make the conservative estimate that he spends ninety-five percent of his life in here, and old habits die hard; his brain has yet to realise that it doesn’t need to memorise escape routes anymore. He knows the room in a near outlandish amount of detail, and- more currently speaking- he's mapped it out in its entirety four and a half times in the past hour.

“Well, it’s five,” Sam says, the first words either of them have spoken in just over seven minutes. “I guess I’d better go.”

Dean grunts.

“See you next week, yeah?” Sam says, getting up from his chair.

“Month,” Dean says, and Sam stops dead.

“What do you mean?” he asks, with a look on his face that’s already pleading ‘please don’t do this’. Dean pretends not to notice.

“Let’s make it next month,” he says.

“Dean-” Sam begins imploringly.

“If you turn up next week, I’ll refuse to see you,” Dean says, keeping his face hard and his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him. The silence returns, reinvented as a sort-of stand-off, and Dean’s sure as hell not gonna crack first.

“I’ll come back on the first,” Sam eventually yields. It’s the 4th today, so Dean could complain that it’s not quite a month, but he’s not _that_ pedantic. Not yet, at least.

“Whatever,” he says.

“Okay,” Sam says with a relieved smile, forever finding silver linings in storm clouds. “Great! I’ll see you then.” He leans down and awkwardly hooks his arms around Dean. Dean stays sitting upright, stiff and unbending, arms by his sides. It’s nothing new to Sam, who hugs him as tightly as ever.

“Seeya,” Sam says. Dean doesn’t reply and, after casting one final look back, Sam leaves. As the door shuts, Dean lets himself relax a little. He’s made it through yet another visit without once making eye contact. Maybe he should get a prize.

Somebody knocks on his door, and Dean shoots it an annoyed glance.

“Dean?” a voice calls.

“S’open,” he says- _like they’d let me lock it_ \- and the door swings open. He glances over, acknowledges Jody with a nod, and looks away again.

“You ready for dinner?” she asks.

Dean shrugs.

“Come on, let’s hear that voice,” she says. He glares at her, but that rarely has any effect on Jody.

“Yeah,” he says grudgingly.

“Was that so hard?” she says, coming up behind him. Irritated, he bats her hands away from the handles.

“I can do it,” he snaps. Jody lifts her hands away instantly and steps back.

"Of course, sorry,” she says apologetically. “Lead the way.”

Jody stays by his side as they head for the dining room, matching her speed to his. His hands fumble on the chair’s wheels, but he’s damned if he’s going to acknowledge it.

“Hey Dean!” Becky smiles as he rolls in. “How are you today?”

“Super."

“Don’t you ever get tired of being grumpy?” she replies affectionately. If there’s a way to aggravate Becky, Dean hasn’t found it yet- if anything, she gets cheerier to compensate for his bitterness.

Dean positions himself at the table and looks around. There are nineteen residents in the care home, but they don’t always eat at the same time, or in the same place. Not including the carers, there are eleven of them seated around the huge table today- three who have to avoid anything hard or sharp, four on a puree-only diet, and one who can’t eat anything at all but likes to feel included. That leaves three of them who can still eat what they want, a count which includes Dean.

Dean tries to eat in his own room as often as he can, both to protect his dignity and because he kind of hates people. He has an agreement with the staff that he’ll eat with the others at least once a week, but that doesn’t mean he has to be gracious about it.

“You’re a vegetarian?” Jo says when Dean’s food is set down in front of him, in the same kind of tone that a teenage girl might use to say ‘you’re wearing _that_?’. Jo’s one of the more able-bodied residents, a pretty young girl who’s only been here for a couple of weeks.

“Nope,” Dean answers.

“So you just don’t like burgers?” Dean doesn’t answer. “Your loss,” she shrugs.

Dean lets his eyes flicker from his own pasta to the cheeseburger Jo’s picking up, and he can’t help but scowl. _He_ wants one- problem is, his hands don’t. Burgers are generally considered ‘disability-friendly’ food, because they’re big and pretty easy to hold, but Dean disagrees. To pick one up you need to use both hands at once, co-ordinating them for long enough to bring the sandwich to your mouth, bite it and put it down again, and that’s a hell of a lot easier said than done.

Ravioli is safer. If his hands decide to spasm and clench when he’s clutching a fork, he doesn’t end up crushing his meal and spilling crap down his front. If he suddenly gets caught in a coughing fit or if his grip randomly disappears altogether, then it’s easier to get new cutlery than a new burger. Sure, there are ways the meal could be made manageable, but there’s no friggin’ way that Dean’s about to ask someone to cut up his food like he’s five. He knows that nobody would actually make bib jokes, but they might offer him one seriously, and that’s about a thousand times worse. That means that unless the lumps of plasticine masquerading as his hands suddenly snap back into functionality, he’ll put up with whatever he can spear on a fork.

There have been a lot of phrases banded around regarding Dean’s condition in the seventeen months he’s been in the chair. He’s heard ‘spinal cord injury’ and ‘complete paralysis’ (or ‘incomplete paralysis’, depending on who you ask)- and the ever delightful ‘tetraplegic’ which, as far as he’s concerned, isn’t even _true._ He’s got sweet F.A in his legs, but his hands are still there. They shake and tighten and wilt, but they’re _there,_ dammit.

“How was Sam?” Becky asks, and Dean smirks and checks his watch. Four minutes. Her self-control is improving.

“He’s fine.”

“Good! And how are he and Jess?”

“Still together.” Becky’s smile falters for a moment.

“Good for them!” she says, a little too brightly. She picks up the spoon, fumbles and drops it, and Dean really wishes he had the dexterity to applaud sarcastically.

“Sorry,” Becky apologises to Ava. “Give me a minute.”

“Here you go,” Jody says, passing a clean spoon over.

“Thanks,” Becky says apologetically. "You okay for more, Ava?” Ava blinks, and Becky carefully feeds her another spoonful of food.

“How was seeing Sam?” Jody asks, a slight rephrasing that creates a completely different question.

“Fine. Stressed about college.”

“Poor thing,” Becky says sympathetically. Dean’s pretty sure that, in her head, she’s already giving Sam backrubs and running him baths and probably playing out some kinky nurse fantasy. The sweet ones always were always the freakiest in bed.

“I don’t know, I always thought studying law would be pretty fun,” Jody says. “What about you, Channing? Isn’t that what Kevin wants to do?”

“No,” Channing says slowly, “politics.”

“Ahh yes, first Asian-American president. I remember now,” Jody says.

“He… never… lets me… forget,” Channing says, and Jody snorts. At the other end of the table, there’s a quiet thud as a cellar of salt is knocked off the table. A carer hurries over to clean it up, and Dean looks away from the man in the wheelchair, his body twisting and arms and legs jerking. Every now and again he lets out a yell or a cry. The first time Dean saw a resident have a fit it scared him, the second time, it depressed him, and now it’s just another part of life.

Some of the residents here are disabled because of accidents, and some have never known what it’s like to be healthy, and Dean can never decide who has it worse. He remembers what it was like to run a race and catch a ball and have sex, and there are some people in here who’ve never had those chances. Then again, that means they’ve got less to miss.

“You’re taking a degree too, right?” Jo asks Channing.

“Yes… Classics.”

“Oh man, that’s cool. All I ever did was tend bars,” Jo says. “Too dumb for college.”

“You’re not!” Jody protests.

“You should… take a degree… now,” Channing says. “Like me. There are… ways. They can… work… it out.”

It takes Channing about twenty seconds to finish her sentence, but everybody waits patiently. Dean’s not sure that Jo hears every word- Channing’s speech is slurred, and it can be difficult to tell what she’s saying if you don’t know how to listen- but she still gets the overall sentiment.

“Maybe,” Jo says. “We’ll see how bored I get. How about you, Dean? You hiding a degree in Oriental Studies or something?”

“If by that you mean a stash of anime porn, then yeah.” Becky drops the spoon again as Jody bites her lip to try and keep from laughing.

“Dean was in the FBI,” Jody supplies, because Jody is the worst kind of bitch; the kind who like to do things ‘for Dean’s own good’. As far as Dean can see, if _he’s_ not concerned with his own good, there’s no reason why anybody else should be.

“Oh my God, really?” Jo says, eyes wide. “That is _so_ cool. What was it like?”

“It was a job,” he says brusquely. “I had it. Now I don’t.” He spikes a piece of pasta and brings it to his mouth. Dean remembers being able to take on a double cheeseburger and large fries in four minutes flat. It takes him twenty minutes to finish a meal now, and that’s if he rushes.

Which he does. Because, you know, _people_.

Dean spends the evening watching TV in his room. As crappy as he feels for sucking all the life out of the family bank account, his TV is the one thing he’s not willing to feel guilty for- hell, the damn thing barely gets five channels. At eight, the night staff show up and the day staff go home, and about two hours later Dean figures it’s late enough that, if he goes to bed, he’ll sleep until morning. Just like that, another day has passed, identical to a hundred that have gone before.

 

* * *

 “Dean, do you want to come and do activities?”

“Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing, you're just not usually this dumb.”

“Aww, c’mon, Garth’s in.”

“And that’s supposed to make me say _yes_?” Dean says incredulously.

“You like Garth!” Pamela protests.

“Bullshit.”

“Well, okay- you don’t _not_ like Garth.”

“Yeah, well. I’m okay in here, thanks,” he says. She gives a little smile and shrugs.

“Well, you know where we’ll be.”

Dean doesn’t think it’s worth trying to dignify that with an answer. His hands are playing up today- pain shooting through them sporadically, pain that won’t go away. Maybe they’ll get better as the day goes on, but he doubts it.

Mornings are always the worst time of day. He’s stiff and painful from lying in bed all night, and the day stretches ahead of him with no end in sight. If Dean goes to bed at ten, there’s another ten and a half hours to get through- so far, he’s only been up for two.

Residents can get up whenever they want, but once the staff realised that Dean’s preferred time was ‘never’, they started enforcing a Get Dean Winchester Out Of Bed initiative. There’s actually an on-going competition between the nurses to see who can persuade him up earliest- they’ve got their personal bests written up on a whiteboard in the staffroom. Ellen’s the current title-holder, with 9:02AM. Dean sometimes stays in bed later purely to piss off the carers he doesn’t like (the earliest Ruby has managed is 12.55PM, which she counted as success because it was ‘before we have to use 24 hour time’)- but, to be honest, it’s mostly because he doesn’t see all that much point in getting up. And even if he _is_ out of bed, he’s sure as hell not doing ‘activities’. Nine times out of ten, it involves glitter glue or felt tip pens, and he really would rather die.

A carer wanders by every now and again to check Dean’s okay, but mostly they leave him to it. It’s halfway through the afternoon before somebody else knocks on his door.

“What?” he calls.

“Hey, sunshine,” Meg grins lazily. Not every carer works every day, but most prefer certain days. Thursdays bring a trio of women so putrid Dean’s pretty sure they clawed their way out of Hell itself: Meg, Ruby and Lilith. They’re manageable alone, but together? If Dean’s a loner, then on Thursdays he’s a downright hermit.

“What do you want?”

“Don’t get excited, I’m not even wearing the nice underwear today,” Meg dismisses. “You coming out?”

“No, obviously not.”

“You sure?”

Dean screws his face up. “Uh, yeah?” Meg rarely bothers asking, much less twice.

“Just thought I’d check,” she says. “On a completely unrelated note, we’ve got a new volunteer.”

“What, did one die?” The volunteers at the home can generally be split into two categories: kids trying to get badges, and women so old that they’re probably weaker than he is.

“Maybe,” Meg shrugs. “Either way, the replacement’s worth your attention.” She leaves before he can shoot any more insults at her, and he’s stuck in the dilemma of whether to go out and see what’s going on- knowing fully well that it may be a trick, and that even if it’s not, he'll have listened to _Meg_ \- or to stay in his room and drive himself insane with curiously.

It’s been a long time since Dean had anything worth getting curious about.

He rolls himself out, waiting in the doorway for a minute so that Pam can wheel a resident down the corridor- the hallways here are wide, but not _that_ wide. Dean makes his way to the lounge, thinking all the while that even if it's fucking Bob Ross, he’s still not colouring in- and then the automatic door slides open and he goes in and mother of fuck, he is going to rip Meg apart with his _teeth._

“Dean,” Meg says, with a smile that couldn’t scream ‘haha-fuck-you’ harder if it was wearing a sign with the words in flashing lights. “I’m so glad you came out to see us. Castiel, this is Dean, one of the residents here.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the new volunteer says.

The reason that Meg’s dragged Dean out, of course, is that Castiel is probably the single most attractive human being who has ever walked God’s green Earth. There was a guy volunteering here when Dean first rocked up last February who looked kinda similar (in the sense that a scribble looks like a Van Gough, that is), and Dean had stared and Meg had _noticed._ And he knows, he friggin’ well _knows_ from the way she’s looking at him now that she _remembers_ _,_ because Meg is every conceivable kind of awful. The stupidly attractive man smiles while Dean treats Meg to the visual equivalent of a shower of acid.

“Dean can talk,” Pam throws out from across the room. “Don’t let him try and convince you otherwise.”

“That’s a pretty key part of the welcome pack now,” Ruby adds without looking up from her magazine. “It was two months before I realised he could speak.”

“Yeah,” Dean says to Castiel, determinedly ignoring every other person in the room. “Same.” He starts to wheel himself away.

“Are you going to stay?” Castiel calls, and Dean’s hands pause on the wheels of his chair. Coming into the lounge and then immediately leaving probably does look kinda weird. Plus, if he goes now, Meg will know that this guy’s _gotten_ to him- which, by proxy, means that she got to him. Dean’s not about to let that happen.

“I’m gonna watch TV for a while,” he says with a tight smile, nodding at the screen hung up on the wall.

Castiel nods and turns back to the table they’ve got set up. Dean looks over casually as he rolls past, just _waiting_ for the fucking colouring books, but Castiel’s avoided that particular horror. Easter is only a few days away, so Dean will begrudge him the craft. He might not want to have decorations around, but some of the other residents do, and who is he to spoil their fun?

“Hey, can I change the channel?” he asks Ava, who stares at him. It takes great skill to say ‘don’t even _think_ about it’ using only your eyes, but Ava’s something of an expert, so Dean ends up watching some fucking cake show (why are there so many goddamn cake shows?) when he could be back in his room with actual decent television.

After five or so minutes, the annoyance (and increasingly hysterical focus on the diameter of frosting roses) gets the better of him. Dean has nothing to prove- not to this guy, or to anybody else. Meg can go fuck herself.

He spins his wheelchair around, ready to escape, but he somehow ends up accidentally locking eyes with Castiel. At least the new volunteer is sitting down, so there’s none of the usual awkwardness that comes from your eyes being a few feet below where people expect them to be.

“Somehow I doubt you’ve decided to make Easter baskets,” Castiel deadpans. Dean snorts.

“You catch on quickly, I’ll give you that.” He scoots himself forwards a few feet to where Castiel is cutting out pieces of ribbon. “What do you even  _do_ with an Easter basket?”

“Put things in it, I suppose.” Castiel rotates the basket in his hands. “I’m not really sure. Could you hand me the glue?” A beat passes before Dean realises Castiel is addressing him.

“Sure,” he says, and his hands behave themselves for long enough to pass the glue stick over.

“Thank you.” Castiel neatly smears glue over the back of the ribbon and then sticks it on. Holding the basket up to show the woman next to him, he frowns. “Lenore, I’m not entirely sure we’ve done this correctly.”

Dean snorts. “I’ll say," he says before he can stop himself.

“It’s not thatbad,” Castiel argues. Lenore might not be able to say it, but Dean’s pretty sure she’s thinking the same thing he is. The ribbon, which was supposed to run parallel, is so askew that it starts out lining the top and ends halfway down the basket.

“No offence, but it kind of is.”

“Maybe it’s slightly off-centre-"

“Yeah, and I have a slight limp,” Dean scoffs. Dean’s expecting Castiel to squirm or wince, but he doesn’t even blink.

“It isn’t easy to do,” Castiel defends, changing tack. “The ribbon slips.”

“Oh, right, sure.”

“It  _does._ ” Castiel peels the ribbon off and glares at it like it’s personally offended him. “That's the second time I’ve tried now. I don’t believe it can be done.”

“Dude, it’s gluing ribbon onto wicker. You don’t need to be Damien Hirst.”

“I’m telling you, it’s not possible.”

“Ten bucks says it is.”

Castiel looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Five,” he counters.

An hour and a half later, after Dean’s glued ribbon onto ten baskets (“ _Don’t_ ,” he says warningly after screwing the first one up, and Castiel’s perfectly straight face is actually more annoying than laughter would have been), everyone’s called for dinner. Dean breathes a silent sigh of relief, because his hands are minutes away at best from turning to lead. Gluing ribbon might not be taxing for most people, but he’s not ‘most people’ anymore, as his aching joints are determined to remind him.

Dean sets down the final basket, grins, and turns his hand over on the table. Glowering, Castiel drops a crumpled $5 bill into the upturned palm.

“Thanks for dropping by, Castiel,” Pam says as he stands up to go.

“My pleasure,” he says, in that gravelly voice that would be better matched to a dollar-per-minute sex line than a crappy adult care home. “I’ll be back next week at the same time, if that’s alright?”

“Perfect,” Pam nods. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yes, okay. Goodbye, Lenore. Goodbye, Dean.”

"Seeya," Dean says as he wheels himself out. He refuses to eat with the others two nights in a row, retreating instead to the sanctuary of his room. He’s halfway through his meal when he realises that he just took part in a group activity for the first time in at least five months, and that Castiel tricked him into doing so.

 _Sneaky fucker._  Dean doesn’t know whether to scowl or smile.

 

* * *

Easter itself arrives a few days later. The whole place is dripping with decorations and the staff are determined to celebrate, hiding foil-wrapped eggs around the home and staging a hunt to find them. Dean doesn’t leave his room.

“I’m guessing you don’t want yours,” Ellen calls from the doorway, holding up a gold-wrapped egg.

“Throw it on the bed,” he says. She does, but lingers for a moment.

“Heard you helped make some of those baskets,” she says. Dean groans.

"I stuck some ribbon down because the volunteer screwed up. That was all.”

Ellen loops her thumbs through her belt hooks and leans back against the door. “They look nice,” she says mildly.

“What’s it to you?”

“The world's not out to get you, boy,” Ellen sighs. “It was nice to hear you were getting involved, that’s all. You know we like getting to see you.”

“Bull.”

“No, not bull.” She waits for Dean to reply. He lets her.

“Talked to Sam a few days back,” she says. Ellen wasn’t even working when Sam came in to visit, but somehow the news doesn’t surprise Dean at all. Out of all the carers at the home, Sam’s probably closest to Ellen- and if Dean’s being honest, so is he. “Told me you don’t want him coming so often.”

“Yeah. So?”

“How come?”

“Kid’s got a life. He should be out living it.”

“And you don’t count as a part of that life?” Ellen challenges.

Dean turns his head away with a smile that’s more of a grimace. “Okay, we're not talking about this.”

“What a shock,” Ellen mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, Dean, that was rude,” she says, shaking her head in apology. “I just… I wish you’d let us in.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that it don’t take a genius to see that you’re hurting, but it’d take a psychic to find out _why_.”

Dean wants to hit something. He wants to tell her that if she wants to know what’s wrong, she just has to _look_. Read the section in his folder marked ‘history’, listen to him try and fail to cough like a normal human being, look at his damn dead legs and his fucked-up wooden arms.

“Thanks for the candy,” he says instead. “I’ll see you around.”

“You’re still coming out for dinner, right?” she says.

Dean should say yes. They’ll be making a big deal of the holiday and if he says no, he’ll be the seven year old throwing a tantrum at a party, ruining it for everyone else.

“We’ll see,” he says- which, as they both knew it would, ends up meaning ‘no’. 

* * *

_Tangled metal, sharp and vicious against his flesh, with pain that burns so very hot against the cold glass trickling through his hair. And it hurts, how it hurts, his head and his arms and his back all lacerated and mutilated but no, don’t think about that. Have to focus, have to find Sam. His legs don’t hurt; small blessings. Find Sammy, all that matters, find Sammy. Ignore the pain. Left leg, move. No, nothing, still shocked, too shocked. Dad seems okay, can leave him for now but Sam, have to find Sam, look after your brother, you fucking screw-up, look after Sam. Left leg, move. Nothing. Legs don’t hurt. Blood soaking his hair, blood coating everything everything coated in blood, but whose blood is it? It could be Sam’s, could be Sam find Sam find Sam left leg move move **MOVE** -_

Dean jolts awake. Sweat sticking his shirt to the back of his neck, his eyes find the blurry numbers of his clock: 3:11. His panic begins to fade away and he lets his head fall back onto the pillow. He closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. Fucking nightmares.

It takes Dean a few hours to get back to sleep, but eventually he manages it. He never used to sleep anywhere near this much. He had worked alongside his father, and they shared a philosophy of ‘you can sleep when you’re dead’. With John dead and Dean as good as, they’re both making up for all those sleepless nights.

The staff send Lilith in to wake Dean up- which, most mornings, would work. Dean gets up for Ellen because he respects her; he gets up for Lilith because she terrifies him. Ruby is grating and Meg is repellent, but Lilith, for some reason he can’t name, is downright scary.

“Dean?” she calls. Dean’s always hated it when women talk with that simpering, little girl’s voice. Lilith’s the master of it, but she’s less Raggedy-Anne and more Samara. “Are you going to get up now?”

And _most_ mornings, it works.

“No,” Dean says, from deep below the duvet.

“But it’s already half-past nine, silly!” Lilith sings. “You’re going to miss breakfast.”

“Don’t care.”

“Dean,” she says, her sweet tone gaining an edge to it. “I _really_ think you should get up now, don’t you?”

“Hey, remember all that bull about ‘catering to my needs’ and ‘respecting my choices’?" he says. "Respect this choice: go fuck yourself.”

After a few moments of silence, Dean hears the door close. Good. He’s not ready to face the world just yet.

Lilith doesn’t come back, but a few hours later, Pam wanders in. “Afternoon, gorgeous.”

“Until I’m up, it’s technically still morning.”

“Time doesn’t revolve around you, sweetheart,” she says easily. “If you want food, you need to make a move. Everyone else has already eaten.”

“Can’t I eat in bed?”

“Sure, if you want the cleaners to hunt you down and skin you. No, come on, up, it’s good for you.”

“Right, ‘cause I need to stretch my legs,” he mutters. “What’s the time?”

“Ten past one.” Dean nods, and reaches for the bar on his wall. Curling both hands around it, he drags himself upright. Pam waits silently, knowing better than to offer him help.

“So, food,” Pam says. “We got soup, baked potato or quiche.”

That’d be okay- Dean could do the potato- except that his hands have spent the whole morning shuddering and spasming. His usual tactic of choosing things he can get onto a fork easily doesn’t work on days like this, because he can’t even keep the fork still for long enough.

“You know, I’m not all that hungry,” he says. Pam’s eyes follow his arms down to where he’s hiding his hands under the duvet, ashamed of the gnarled fists. Her eyes turn sad with understanding.

“Dean-”

“Not hungry, Pam,” he repeats. She nods once and leaves.

Dean sits up in bed and feels the familiar, horrible sensation in his throat that means _hey, time to cough._ He leans forwards, pressing an arm below his ribcage and forcing himself through the motions. He feels exhausted by the time he’d done, but the idea of having to deal with Pam all over again is enough to make him transfer to his chair.

He pulls on a loose t-shirt and an oversized hoodie, then painstakingly manoeuvres himself into clean boxers and sweatpants. It takes a long time and as well as shaking like a kid on caffeine, his hands hurt. They really, really fucking hurt, but he’s determined not to show it. When he did FBI work he used to get injured on pretty much a daily basis, and he never took painkillers _then_.

Dean’s just picked up the TV remote when someone knocks on his door.

“What?” he says, annoyed.

And because God’s proven on multiple occasions that, if he does exist, he has a _serious_ thing against Dean, it’s Ruby. “Hey. You coming out?”

“No.”

“You sure? ‘cause the piece of tail you spent an hour making pretty baskets with is here again.”

Sometimes, Dean thinks that it’s probably a good thing he doesn’t get to carry a gun anymore. “Bite me.”

“I’m sorry, did you want that message relayed to him?”

Dean pretends she doesn’t exist until she gets the message and leaves. Half an hour later, though, he gets another knock on the door.

“Ruby, get lost.”

“Try again,” Pam calls back.

“Pam, get lost.”

“Try again,” she says, opening the door. “You okay?”

“I’d be better if people would quit bugging me,” he grumbles. “You don’t bother any of the other residents like this.”

“That’s because they leave their rooms more than once a month,” Pam explains. “C’mon, sugar, come spend some time with us. You did last week.”

“I- no, okay? I don’t want to make any crappy baskets, I don’t want to come out and talk to anyone. I want to stay in here, and do nothing, and have people stop bothering me for five goddamn minutes. What the hell is everyone’s problem today?”

“Don’t know,” Pam says, completely unfazed. “Maybe it’s ‘cause you’re so darn pretty. But I hear you, don't worry. I’ll ask one more time, then I swear I’ll let it go: come out for a little while, Dean. Just ten minutes. You might enjoy yourself.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Pam nods; she’d been anticipating the reply. “Suit yourself.”

And he does, and ‘suiting himself’ involves staying in his room reading magazines. At five, he gets yet another knock on his door (maybe he should hire a butler), and assumes it’s yet another carer- one who’s drawn the short straw of trying to persuade him to eat with the others. Good luck to them; today is not a ‘tolerate the presence of other human beings’ kind of day.

“Yeah?” Dean says, not looking up from the magazine.

“Hello, Dean,” a very male voice says from the door. There are far fewer male carers than there are female, and Dean knows them all well enough to recognise that this guy isn't staff. Besides, _that_ voice really isn’t easy to forget. He looks up and, sure enough, it’s Castiel.

“Uh… can I help you?” Dean asks.

“It’s no matter,” Castiel dismisses. “I asked after you and a carer told me your room number. I thought I’d stop by and ask how you are.”

“Same as ever, I guess,” Dean says. He leaves an awkward gap, which Castiel makes no attempt to fill. “You?” Dean eventually adds.

“Fine,” Castiel replies. “We were making jewellery.”

“Well, that sounds like something I’d hate.”

“Almost certainly.”

Dean chuckles at that. “You know, you’re not selling your services very well.”

“I’m not trying to,” Castiel says simply.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, expecting Castiel to smile or crack a joke. Castiel does neither. His eyes are fixed on Dean’s face, roaming over his features like they’re something worth remembering. Dean makes eye contact, breaks it, makes it again. He tries to think of something to say and fails. His hands hurt.

“Well, goodbye,” Castiel eventually says, and leaves before Dean can say anything in return. Dean stares at the space left and shakes his head, letting out a breath that turns into a sigh. Once upon a time, he thinks, people would have described him as ‘charming’.

The home has at least twenty different volunteers, and only three know Dean by name; only about six know he even exists. They’ve certainly never come to his goddamn _room_  before. What the hell is making Castiel take such an interest? It’s annoying. Dean’s established his routine, his pattern of existence here, and he doesn’t appreciate this guy coming in and screwing things up.

Plus, he's pretty sure that the carers aren’t supposed to tell strangers (because Castiel _is_ a stranger) where individual residents’ rooms are. It’s almost certainly the work of one of the more demonic members of staff, because no matter how much Pam likes to wind him up, she respects him. Dean doesn’t really care that Castiel knows where his room is, but he doesn't like how Castiel found out. That’s Dean's information, about _his_ life, and it pisses him off that they gave it away just like that. More to the point, it pisses him off that they _can,_ that the information is not his own anymore.

Dean spends the rest of the day pretending to be deaf and mute whenever any of the three say anything. They don’t seem to care- though, in all fairness, he’s not sure they notice the difference.

 

* * *

On Tuesday, Dean goes for his obligatory monthly check-up. The home has a big team of medical personnel, but as Dean’s not a ‘high dependency’ patient, he doesn’t see them all that much. The offer is always there, but Dean doesn’t see the point. His legs are not going to spring back into life.

“How’re you doing, boy?”

“Life’s candy.”

Bobby grunts. “Shirt off.”

“Can’t you buy me a drink first?” Dean retorts, but he obligingly pulls off his sweatshirt and drops it on the ground. Bobby gives him a despairing look.

“There’s a table _right there._ ”

“Yeah, but there’s a floor right here too.” Dean pulls off his t-shirt and lets it fall.

Bobby pulls up a stool and starts to feel at Dean’s chest. His gloved hands are cold, but as they move down to gently palpate his abdomen, Dean starts to lose the sensation.

Bobby pulls his stethoscope on. “Gonna listen to your lungs now.”

“I’ll try and make ‘em sound pretty.” Bobby listens carefully, and then checks his heart.

“Everything’s sounding good to me. You feelin’ okay?”

“Peachy.”

“Any chest pain or difficulty breathing?”

“No.”

“Problems coughing?”

Coughing is an interesting thing for Dean, as it turns out that the muscles you see aren’t the only ones that matter. Persuading anything out of his chest and throat is never an easy task when his insides aren’t interested in playing along.

“No worse than usual,” Dean answers.

“Any abdominal pain?”

“Nope.”

“Everything okay downstairs? Still workin' out your waterworks'?”

“You are one dirty old man, doctor. But yeah, I'm managing.” Catheters aren't exactly Dean's idea of of fun, but the fact that he can still sort himself out without assistance features pretty heavily on his meagre list of ‘reasons to be grateful’.

Bobby hands him his t-shirt. “Put that back on and we’ll weigh you.”

“Aww, Bobby, do we have to?”

“That’s Dr. Singer to you,” Bobby says, scribbling notes on his clipboard. “And yep. You know the drill.”

Sighing, Dean obeys. The transfer into the weighing chair is awkward but he manages it, revealing that he’s gained two pounds in a month. It’s probably just water or something, and he’s nowhere near overweight, but it still freaks him out. He’s already lost a ridiculous amount of muscle in his legs; looks like he’s making up for it with fat.

Bobby takes his blood pressure and checks a few other things. Dean passes all the tests with flying colours, and Bobby says they’ll have the results of his blood test in a few days. Dean doesn’t much care, but he nods along anyway.

“And how _are_ you?” Bobby asks once Dean’s pulled his sweatshirt back on.

“You know that’s the third time you’ve asked that question? Maybe _you_ need a check-up. Aging minds and all that.”

“You know what I’m asking, boy,” Bobby retorts, “and it ain’t about your arteries. How’s your head?”

“No change," Dean shrugs.

“You ain’t tried…” Bobby trails off. This isn’t really his domain.

“Pretty sure my notes would say if I had,” Dean points out dryly, and Bobby nods.

“Fair enough. Keep it that way, wouldya?”

“I’ll do my best,” Dean says, with a tight smile that’s got no sincerity to it. Bobby glowers with the rough affection he’s famed for.

“Go on, get outta here,” he says, shooing Dean with his clipboard.

 The organisers and coordinators high up on the chain of command would probably have a heart attack if they heard the way that some of the staff here speak to Dean, but that’s what he _wants_. The good carers treat every person differently, and Dean wants them to act like they would if they met outside of this goddamn place. If that means they treat him like an annoying little shit, then that's fine. At least it’s genuine.

“Seeya next month, Bobby,” Dean calls as he leaves.

“Dr. Singer!” Bobby shouts after him, but his heart isn’t in it. They both know fully well that Dean’s never going to call him that and that- more importantly- Bobby doesn’t want him to.

 

* * *

Pam persuades Dean up at eleven on Thursday, which is considered impressive by everybody involved. Thursdays are the days when Castiel volunteers, but that doesn’t matter, because there’s no way Dean’s taking part. He probably won’t even see the guy.

“Hey, Pam, can I have a shower?”

“Sure thing, sweetness,” Pam says breezily, and Dean has a temporary flush of affection for her. He showers every few days, usually as the result of excessive nagging. He changes his clothes about as often, sleeping in what he wears during the day, because he’s not doing anything or seeing anyone, so why does it matter? He’d thank Pam for not making a big thing of it, but that’d mean admitting it _is_ a thing, so a quick grin will have to do.

Showering’s never fun (even the _phrase_ ‘shower chair’ embarrasses him), but Dean has to admit that he feels better afterwards. He spends the morning aimlessly channel-surfing, and at half-past twelve Pam makes her usual valiant attempt to get him to eat lunch with the others. She fails, but does so good-naturedly.

“Oh hey, I meant to tell you,” she says. “Shopping trip this afternoon, if you’re interested?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Aww, but you’re all nice and clean.”

“Don’t need anything.” More specifically, he doesn’t need to go out in public and have people look at him in pity and disgust and _ugh._ The whole thing is very ugh.

“Fair enough,” she says. “Ruby and Meg are going at about two, so you’ve got time to change your mind.”

Ruby and Meg leaving is an unexpected bonus, and whilst Lilith’s still around, she’s stuck in an office doing paperwork. Dean does most certainly _not_ change his mind, but by three o’clock, he’s so bored that he’s narrowed his options down to staring at the ceiling, colour-coordinating his clothes or leaving the room. Usually option three wouldn’t even be an option, but with the demons otherwise occupied, he decides to chance it.

“Hey,” Jo grins when he enters the lounge. She’s sitting at a table with Channing, and he makes his way over to them.

“What, you didn’t feel like shopping?” he asks.

“Do I look like a ‘shopping’ kind of girl?” Jo demands.

“I am so not answering that,” he says. He takes a look at the art supplies piled in front of her. "Looks like you're an arty kind of girl, though."

"Hardly,” she dismisses. “We're making cards. It’s my grandma’s birthday soon, and Channing’s making Kevin a ‘good luck’ one. He’s got exams coming up.”

Dean glances casually around, but other than a few residents watching TV, there’s no one around. “This a ghost-led activity?”

“Nah, some volunteer called… something. Nice eyes. Wears a trench coat.”

“Castiel,” Dean supplies.

“Something like that,” she agrees. Irritation prickles at the back of Dean’s skull- he isn’t wrong, the guy’s name is _definitely_ Castiel- but he ignores it and pulls himself up next to Channing.

“I thought Kevin just had exams,” Dean frowns.

“He… always… has exams,” Channing replies. “And I… always… make cards.”

“That’s sweet,” Dean says, though it sounds kind of pointless to him. “You should switch to a yearly edition.”

Channing laughs softly. “Maybe.”

“You got anything to make a card for?” Jo asks.

“Nah,” Dean replies- but then, for some reason, says “It’s my brother’s birthday in two weeks, I guess.”

“That counts. Get gluing.”

“Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t do cards.”

“Aww, come on, it’s fun!”

“That's a vicious lie.”

“You won’t know unless you try it,” a new voice says from behind, causing Dean to jump a little. “Hello, Dean.”

“They haven’t got you doing ribbon again, have they?” he says, twisting around to look at Castiel.

“I’ve been reassigned to artwork,” Castiel says, sitting down next to Channing. “What do you think?”

So far it’s just the words ‘GOOD LUCK’, outlined in black pen. “Pretty difficult to get that wrong,” Dean remarks.

“I’m sure I could find a way,” Castiel says, so seriously that Dean nearly misses the joke. “Are you making a card?”

“N-”

“It’s his brother’s birthday soon,” Jo interrupts. “So he should.”

“You have a brother?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah. Name’s Sam,” Dean says.

“Older or younger?” Jo asks.

“Four years younger. He’ll be twenty-four in May.”

“Making you twenty-eight,” Castiel says.

“Yeah. So?”

“It was just an observation,” Castiel shrugs. “Here.” He hands Dean a plain white card before he can protest.

“I- no, listen, I don’t-”

“There’s pink if you’d prefer,” Jo offers. Dean scowls and she whacks him with her half-finished card.

“What colour do you want the words to be, Channing?” Castiel asks.

“… red, please.”

“Is this one okay?” he asks, holding up a marker pen. She nods.

“So you got family?” Jo asks as she sketches something out.

“Me?” Castiel says, looking up. The pen stills and for a moment, Dean thinks he sees sadness taint Castiel’s eyes (‘ _nice eyes_ ’, Jo had called them. Dean hadn’t noticed before, but he guesses they _are_ kind of nice. If, you know, you’re into that). Whatever the look was, it disappears almost instantly, and Castiel continues colouring.

“Yes. An older brother and three younger siblings.”

Jo whistles. “Big family.”

Castiel looks like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t.

“I’m an only child,” Jo offers. “Does it show?”

“That depends. You gonna hit me with the card again?” Dean checks. Jo responds by hitting him with the card again.

“ _Ow_ ,” he complains pointedly. Channing giggles, and Dean looks down at the blank sheet in front of him.

“What am I even supposed to _do_?” he whines.

“You could start with ‘happy birthday’,” Jo says dryly.

“What does Sam like?” Castiel asks.

“Um. Girly stuff.” Jo looks at him threateningly, so he quickly moves on. “Books. He digs reading. Mythology and the classics mostly, but he’s a sci-fi freak.” Dean frowns as he sifts through facts. “I think he likes dogs.”

“Great, so draw a robot dog,” Jo says. Dean scowls at her.

“I’m too old for this,” he complains.

“Just write ‘happy birthday’,” Castiel suggests, having moved onto blocking in the ‘O’. “You can always add more later.”

“Whatever.” Dean grabs hold of one of the giant markers they keep around- that’ll do, Sam likes blue- and begins to write. He’s writing the second ‘P’ when his hand judders suddenly and drags a jagged line across the page. “Motherf-”

Castiel passes him another piece of card without commenting, without even looking up from the letter he’s shading in. Dean refrains from commenting and tries again. He gets all the way to the first ‘Y’ this time.

“Don’t think it’s meant to be,” he says, trying to sound light as he sets the thing aside. It’s not a big deal. It’s _not._ He didn’t want to make a dumbass card anyway. What is he, five years old?

“Aww, come on,” Jo says. “Last go?”

Dean breathes out. “Fine. One last go.” He picks up the pen, focuses, does it slowly, and this time he only makes it to the fucking ‘A’ when his hand screws it up.

“Dean?” Castiel says, looking over at where Dean’s sitting- his head down, his hands gripping onto his wheels. He wants to dig his nails in until the damn tyres burst, wants to unplug the TV and hurl it through the window, wants to feel things break, feel them break because of _him-_

“Didn’t work out so well,” Dean says through gritted teeth. There’s a pause, as there is usually is when people have no idea what to say. When Dean looks over at Castiel, though, the usual look of pity and confusion is absent. Instead, Castiel is frowning down at the card in front of him. As Dean watches, Castiel lifts it up to show them.

“I don’t think this is right,” he says, sounding genuinely perplexed. He’s accidentally coloured in the entirety of the letter ‘D’, so that the card reads ‘goo’ followed by a random half-circle. Dean can’t help it. He starts to laugh.

“Oh my God,” he manages to choke out. “You don’t even have an _excuse._ ” Jo's cackling, and even Channing is giggling weakly.

“I’m sorry, Channing,” Castiel says. “I lost my focus. I’ll start again.”

“No,” she says, still with a small smile on her face. “It’s… fine. I like… this… one.”

“You could cut the middle bit out,” Dean suggests.

“But that would look strange,” Castiel objects.

“Not if you do another colour inside,” Dean says. “So it’s like, two-tone.”

“Totally,” Jo agrees. “It’d look bitchin’.”

Castiel looks highly doubtful that he can handle that level of creative dexterity, but he turns to Channing all the same.

“I’d… like that,” she says, and Dean can tell that that immediately settles any doubt in Castiel’s mind. He picks up a pair of scissors and his gaze on the card becomes so intense that Dean thinks he could probably _burn_ the hole into existence. Halfway through the process, Castiel looks up and blinks as he realises he's the focus of everybody’s attention.

“No pressure,” Dean grins. Castiel visibly swallows.

Working slowly and carefully, Castiel manages to cut out the half-circle. Dean and Jo applaud (Dean claps twice), and he fixes them with a glare that Dean can tell right away is more amused than annoyed. Whilst Castiel can talk, that doesn’t mean he can’t use the same kind of non-verbal communication Dean sees every day; it’s the stationary equivalent of how Dean used to whack Sam around the head with a magazine for making some wise-ass comment.

They work a while longer, Castiel finishing off Channing’s card and occasionally asking soft questions about how she wants certain parts of the design. Jo works on her own project, humming to herself, and Dean watches TV. It’s that goddamn cake show again. If he ends up getting into baking, he’s going to blame Ava.

“How’s this?” Jo asks after a while, holding her own card up. It’s… a card. Dean’s not sure what else to say about it.

“Not bad,” he acknowledges.

“Your grandmother will love it,” Castiel says. “Is this okay, Channing?” He holds the card up for her to see.

“Yes,” she says, sounding content. “… thank you.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Castiel says with a little smile, the first Dean’s seen him show. The puzzled looks and fierce frowns are one thing, but this expression transforms his face. Castiel’s eyes soften and all at once he becomes infinitely more human, more reachable. Dean finds that he’s staring and has to force himself to look away before it gets creepy. Well, creep _ier._

Jo dismisses herself with a “See ya later, guys” and wheels herself back to her room. At Channing’s request, Castiel turns her chair around to face the television. Dean hangs around, thinking that if everyone else is done he’ll help clean up. Only seems fair.

“Did you do another card?” Castiel asks Dean.

“Nah,” Dean says. “I’ll get someone to buy him one or something. No big deal.”

Castiel looks at him with eyes that are both curious and sad, like he can’t understand why something like that would have to happen. “Let me help you.”

If Dean had to collate his least favourite phrases in the whole damn world, then those four words might just top the list. “Thanks, but it’s fine.”

“It wouldn’t be-”

“I said it was fine, okay?” Dean snaps, his rare good mood shattered by the reminder of reality. He can laugh over Castiel’s inability to cut out paper, but the fact remains that if Dean tried he’d more than likely cut his own fingers off.

Most people would either back off or snap right back, but Castiel does neither. After he’s looked at Dean for a fraction of a second too long, he speaks.

“You gave Channing and I the idea of how to fix her card. I owe you.”

“What? No, seriously-”

“I _am_ being serious,” Castiel insists. “I would have had to throw it away otherwise, and I don’t like being in debt. Let me help you.”

Dean knows that the guy is playing some stupid mind game, just like he did before with the five bucks- but damn, it’s a convincing mind game. The deep-seated guilt regarding how he treats Sam sharpens into a barb and flicks at the walls of Dean’s chest, reminding him that he didn’t even _tell_ the kid ‘happy birthday’ last year. A crappy handmade card won’t do much- but if what little it does can go towards making up for everything else, then he owes Sammy that much.

And well, if Dean’s being honest, then the idea of making Castiel happy isn’t exactly _unpleasant._

“Whatever,” he grumbles, reaching for a plain piece of card. Castiel rises from his chair and stands behind Dean. Dean holds the pen up for him to take, but Castiel shakes his head.

"I said I’d help you, not do it for you. Keep the pen.”

Dean does as he’s asked, without really knowing what’s going on. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Castiel moves closer behind him and closes a hand around Dean’s. His grip stabilises Dean’s hand, counteracting the effect of the tremor as he brings it down to rest on the page. Dean twists to look at him, blinking like an idiot.

“Write,” Castiel says simply.

 _Oh right, that._ Slowly, Dean starts to move his hand, and the action takes Castiel’s with it. It’s kind of clunky, and takes much longer than it would if Castiel did it himself, but it works. Castiel’s grip is warm and firm, and when they finish the outline and Castiel lets go, Dean feels a fleeting sensation of loss. He snaps himself out of _that_ as fast as he can.

“Uh, thanks,” he says, not really sure where to look. He hasn’t decided yet if that was more or less embarrassing than Castiel writing the words himself.

“It’s no problem,” Castiel says. “Are you going to colour it in?” Dean very nearly manages to repress his smirk, and Castiel tilts his head in confusion.

“Nothing, just… colouring,” Dean says. Castiel clearly doesn’t understand, but that’s half the fun of it. Dean focuses on blocking in the letters with that same blue, a task easier than drawing the lines themselves. As long as he sticks to small, carefully measured movements, nothing _too_ catastrophic can happen. If he goes over the line a bit, then whatever- artistic license, right?

“When are you going to give it to him?” Castiel asks.

“The first,” Dean says as he works. “His birthday’s the day after, so it works out pretty well.”

“Does he visit often?”

“Not as often as he’d like,” Dean says before he can fully consider how much information he wants to tell a near-stranger.

“You don’t like him coming?”

“It’s not that,” Dean says, keeping his eyes trained on the paper. “I like seeing the kid. I just don’t like him seeing _me_.”

There’s a pause, in which Dean continues colouring. “You’re ashamed,” Castiel says.

“Wouldn’t you be?” Dean says.

“No,” Castiel replies straightaway, simply, like it’s obvious. Dean stops colouring for a second and makes brief eye contact.

“Yeah?” He returns to the card. "Good for you."

“Tell me about him,” Castiel says.

“About Sam?”

“Yes. You said he studies law?”

“Yeah, wants to be a lawyer. Aces every test- scary good. Always was smart, though.”

“Really?”

“You should’ve seen his report cards,” Dean laughs. “I was so friggin’ proud. Still am.”

The conversation threatens to dip back into melancholy, but Castiel pushes it along before it has the chance. “Did he like school?”

“Happiest I’ve ever seen him. We moved around a lot when he was a kid, and I think he loved every damn school we went to. As long as the place had a library, he was set.”

“Yes, you said he liked reading- mythology, I think?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Greek, Norse, Christian, the older the better. Even when he was a kid he knew more than most adults. Seriously, there was this one time when he was eight-”

And just like that, Castiel has Dean telling stories about Sam- talking about him as a kid, as an awkward teen (“I swear, he _definitely_ had a dungeons and dragons phase,” Dean says, carefully omitting that it was him who got Sam into the game in the first place), about Jess and the career he wants to go into and  all the things he wants to do. Dean talks about things he didn’t even _know_ he knew, things he’s picked up from conversations where Sam talks and Dean maps out the structure of his room to try and forget there's anyone inside it.

It takes Dean a while to finish the letters, and yeah, there are a few mistakes, but nothing so bad that it ruins the card. He doesn’t even realise when he finishes the word ‘Sam’, automatically trying to move onto the next letter and finding there isn’t one. Looking down at the finished thing, Dean feels almost proud- a stupid sensation, considering it’s over three crappy, wavy words that someone else helped him do.

Dean opens the card and picks up a pen. He looks at the paper, looks at his hand, and then sets the pen back down again.

“It’s not like it really needs a message inside,” he reasons. “I mean, it says it all right there on the front.”

“I don’t think it’s technically a card unless you write something inside.”

“Gee, I didn’t realise you were the card police.”

“Can I write it?”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I know. I want to.”

Castiel doesn’t look ready to give up without a fight, so Dean sighs and shoves the card over.

“To Sam, Happy birthday, Dean,” he dictates flatly, and Castiel writes it down carefully. After a moment’s thought, Dean decides to add something else.

“Hey, could you write ‘bitch’ after his name?”

“Bitch?” Castiel says, the word sounding strange on his lips; Castiel tends to talk like he swallowed a dictionary with everything marked ‘slang’ neatly cut out. It’s kind of weird, sure, but Dean doesn’t really care. Living in a place like this teaches you not to take any kind of speech for granted.

“Inside joke,” Dean explains. Or rather, it had been, when they spent their days together and conversation flowed like breath rather than spluttering like a failing engine.

“I see,” Castiel says, though Dean has no idea whether he does or not. Castiel amends the message and pushes the card back over for Dean’s examination. _Nice writing,_ Dean thinks, before chastising himself for being so damn soft. Castiel stands up and starts to gather up the scraps of paper, pushing lids onto pens and tipping them into pots. Dean lends a hand where he can, dropping things into bags and boxes.

“Thank you,” Castiel says once he’s finished, and it’s like someone’s lit a firework in Dean’s chest. _Stop it,_ he tells himself, but he can’t help it. He can’t remember the last time he got to do something worth being thanked for.

“No problem, Cas,” he says, a little more warmly than he’d intended. Castiel blinks, but then that small smile flickers over his face again.

“I’ll be back next week,” he says, stacking his chair at the side of the room. “Any chance you’ll supress your loathing of craft for a third time?”

“Doubt it,” Dean says. He tries to imagine what Meg would do if she saw Castiel lean over Dean and join their hands, then decides against it for his own mental well-being. “There are people around on Thursdays that I… how can I put this? We don’t always see eye-to-eye.”

Castiel considers this. “How well do you match up with people on Mondays?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s nothing, I was just… thinking of changing my visits here to fall on Mondays,” Castiel says. “Scheduling reasons. It would be easier.”

“Oh, okay,” Dean says. “Yeah, I can do Mondays.”

“I’ll email Chuck and let him know.”

“Don’t expect a reply,” Dean warns. Chuck’s a good guy, but he’s near-impossible to track down. He carries himself with a pitiful kind of stress, like he’s been contracted to recreate Seaworld shows using only goldfish and jelly bracelets. Chuck finds washing machines suspicious and confusing, and Dean once watched him nearly have a breakdown after pushing a ‘pull’ door for a solid eight minutes. Women go crazy for it.

“Try Ellen or Jody,” Dean advises. “They know Chuck’s schedule way better than he does.”

“Okay, I’ll try,” Castiel says. He crosses over to where Channing is sitting. “Goodbye, Channing. I’ll be back on Monday. See you then.”

“See… you,” she says faintly. Castiel says goodbye to the other residents, and then, last of all, pauses by Dean’s shoulder. “Goodbye, Dean,” he says.

“Seeya, Cas,” Dean replies. He watches Castiel go, running a finger across the card in his hand. He catches sight of Ava, watching him with a look which needs no words.

“Oh, shut up,” he scowls.


	2. Chapter Two

In terms of staff, Mondays are definitely better. Ruby’s working, which sucks, but she’s a little more manageable on her own. Becky, Jody and Ash are around too, and Dean has no problem with any of them. It still doesn’t mean he wants to venture out of his room, but it does mean he’s a little less bitter when forced to do so. 

He doesn’t sleep well on Sunday night. He spends three to six A.M staring blankly at the wall because whenever he closes his eyes, he smells burning flesh and sees his father’s glassy, unseeing stare. Whenever he thinks of Sam he sees the same, because apparently his subconscious is getting creative.

Becky tries to get Dean up at nine, and he doesn’t even bother telling her to go away. Jody comes in at ten, Ash at eleven, and Ruby at twelve with a pre-emptive air of ‘at least I tried’. She reappears an hour later and stands in the doorway, her arms folded.

“Listen, I don’t really give a damn what you do- as far as I’m concerned, you can stay in here all day. All the same, I figured I’d remind you that the one volunteer with the magic power of making you engage with humankind is coming by in an hour.”

Dean throws his clock at her head. She watches it thud against the door.

“Nice,” she comments and leaves. Dean scowls and pulls the duvet tighter around himself. You talk to a guy twice and suddenly the whole goddamn country wants to know when you’re next seeing him. There are dozens of volunteers here, but nobody gets like this when Garth or Nancy are around. Dean’s met Castiel three times; he doesn’t even know his last name. There’s absolutely no reason why the guy should mean anything to Dean.

… so why _does_ he?

There are some people, Dean’s found, that hook you the second you meet them. Just like there are people you see every day at work or school and never have any real desire to get to know, there are people who you meet once and know, instantly, that you’re going to meet again- that you _want_ to meet again. Castiel, for some unknown reason, is firmly in that category.

Maybe Dean’s finally going crazy. Stir-crazy, isolation-crazy, whatever. Maybe he’s spent too much time staring at these walls, and now he’s jumping on the first vaguely interesting thing to wander by with a trenchcoat and set of pens. It’s pathetic, but fuck it, so is Dean.

When Ruby next sticks her head around Dean’s door and sees that he’s up and dressed, she gets a soft smile on her face and leaves without saying anything. _That_ makes Dean want to get straight back into bed, and he’s still seriously considering it when he drags his own pitiful ass to the lounge. Castiel looks up and smiles and, for a moment, Dean forgets to be angry at the world.

Adam and Ava are watching television, with Layla and Jo sat at the table. “Ew,” Jo says when Dean approaches. “It’s you.”

“Love you too,” he tells her. “Hey, Layla. Hey, Cas.”

“Hello,” Castiel says. Layla mumbles something that could potentially be ‘hi’.

“You come to join us?” Jo asks.

“More to watch and just generally mock,” Dean says. “What terrible thing are you doing today?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel says. “What would you like to do?”

“Sadly, nothing legal or achievable,” Jo grumbles. Dean's starting to like this girl.

“Becky said to check the cabinet,” Castiel says, and he opens the doors of a huge cupboard that houses enough craft stuff and board games to supply a good twenty primary schools. He pulls out pens and paper, a few games that Dean’s never played and has no intention of trying out, and, finally, a pack of cards. He turns them over in his hands thoughtfully.

“You know how to play poker?” Dean asks.

“No, I don’t.”

“I do,” Jo says. Layla mutters her agreement. Across the room, Jody looks up from her newspaper.

“There’s no way I’m letting you four play poker without me.”

“Learn,” Dean instructs Cas.

Castiel hands the cards over to Jody to shuffle and deal. Dean and Jo explain as they play, occasionally squabbling over this rule or that. Jody settles any disputes by use of her ‘mom voice’ and Castiel seems to absorb everything they tell him without a problem. He plays for Layla, holding the cards out for her and asking careful questions.

“That one?” Castiel asks, tapping a card.

“Nuh-uh,” Layla slurs.

Castiel moves his finger across. “That?”

“Uh-huh,” she grunts, and he pulls the card out and sets it face down. They’re using a pot of buttons as poker chips, as Jody put a quick end to the real-money betting Jo was trying to introduce. Dean keeps his cards face-down on the table to side-step the various perils involved in holding things. Jo’s right hand is much better than her left, Dean soon discovers, and she uses her teeth more than her fingers to pull out cards.

“Oh, that’s just nasty,” he says the first time she does it. She drops the card onto the table, turns them over and exposes a perfect winning hand.

“Yeah, but that, my friend, is oh-so sweet.” He looks over the cards, his mouth opening a little in shock.

“You cheated,” he accuses.

“Did not.”

“Oh, come on!”

“ _Dean,_ ” Jody says warningly, and Dean gives in.

“Cheat,” he grumbles, but he pushes the substitute chips over all the same.

“Suck it, Winchester,” Jo grins, accepting them.

Time has never been Dean’s friend. It likes to drag, turning minutes into hours and hours into days. Today, though, it’s like kicking a dwindling caravan into warp speed; what Dean thinks is thirty minutes turns out to be nearly two hours. The only reason he realises at all is that Layla starts to grow uncomfortable- sitting up for too long is painful for her, and she needs to rest.

“You wanna go back to your room?” Jody asks, and she makes a confirmatory noise. “One minute, guys,” Jody tells them, and they all say goodbye to Layla before Jody wheels her back.

“You did pretty well for a first timer,” Dean comments to Castiel while they wait for Jody's return.

“I didn't do anything,” Castiel says. “It was Layla who won.”

“Oh, sure,” Dean says.

“It’s true,” Castiel insists. “I’m not good with this kind of thing.”

“What _are_ you good at?” Dean asks. “Don’t give me that look, I'm not trying to be a bitch about it. Craft's not your thing and cards aren't your deal, so what is?”

Castiel considers this. “I enjoy reading,” he says. “I like music, theatre, learning- particularly languages.”

“You speak others?”

“I’m fluent in Italian and Spanish, and nearly fluent in French. I’ve been learning Mandarin for a few years, and I just started lessons in American sign language,” Castiel replies. Dean stares.

“ _Dude._ ”

“What?”

“I spent my two years of French class trying to look up Cady Fillerman’s skirt; all I remember is ‘ _bonjour’_. Hey, say something in Italian.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, anything.”

Castiel thinks. “ _Che cosa hai fatto ultimamente_?” he says, with an accent that sounds more or less spot-on. Even Jo seems impressed.

“What does that mean?” she asks.

“What have you been doing lately?" he translates.

“Huh,” Dean says. “Sounds more impressive in Italian.”

Jody returns, Layla settled in her room. “Are you guys still playing?”

“You bet,” Jo says.

“Awesome.” Jody sits back down. “Castiel, who are you playing with?”

“Not me,” Jo says quickly.

“No way,” Dean agrees- poker is his game, and he’s determined to make everybody at this table _pay._ “Make him go solo, Jody. I wanna see him in action.”

“I’ll be terrible,” Castiel protests.

“That’s kind of the point. C’mon, let’s do this.”

Castiel is either better than he thinks or a filthy, filthy liar, because he hammers every single one of them. He looks astonished each time they reluctantly flick the makeshift poker chips his way, like he’s not entirely sure what he’s done to earn them.

“I think it’s his poker face,” Jo muses once they all lose for the hundredth time. “He just doesn’t flinch.”

“Guy's blood is botox,” Dean agrees.

“I can hear you, you know _,_ ” Castiel says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. “It’s most likely luck.”

“Then next time we play, I’m cheating,” Dean mutters.

“Wait, we weren’t already?” Jo says, her face the picture of innocence.

“I _knew_ it!”

* * *

The next time Castiel visits, Dean doesn’t even bother getting out of bed. It’s one of _those_ days- days when his body feels heavy and hard to move, when pain shoots through his hands with every action, when he stares at the magnetic shower rails and his electric razor and at all the carefully filed down once-sharp edges, and all he can think is that none of this is fair.

As the day goes on, various carers stick their head around the door, but Dean takes no notice. He’s trapped somewhere deep inside himself, with a harsh pull of self-loathing in his gut that won’t let him stay in the present moment long enough to care about what they’re telling him. Castiel doesn’t show, and Dean’s glad. He doesn’t want to been seen like this.

The feeling doesn’t fade. It’s not a new thing. Sometime the darkness descends for days at a time, a sticky black cloud that seeps into his bloodstream and breaches his core. Usually Dean just stays in bed and waits it out, only rising to choke down food when Ellen holds up the NG tube and gives him an ultimatum- but soon it’s the 1st of May, and the day of Sam’s visit.

“Sam’s gonna be here in an hour,” Ellen says, standing in the doorway with her arms folded, “and you _know_ he’ll worry if he sees you like this.”

“Then phone and tell him not to come,” Dean tells his pillow.

“Oh, and what reason am I supposed to give?”

“I’m busy.”

“Doing _what_? Being miserable doesn’t count as a hobby.”

“Tell him I’m sick. Real sick. Hell, I can’t even move my legs.”

“You’re hilarious. C’mon, get dressed, or I’ll send Ash in to do it for you.”

“Fine.” Ash is easy to distract. Dean just has to bring up heavy metal or quantum mechanics.

Ellen narrows her eyes at Dean. “You know what? I think Ash is busy. Guess I’ll have to send Lilith.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You wanna bet?” The resulting stare-off lasts a full ten seconds.

“Fine,” Dean eventually grunts, grabbing at the bar by his bed to pull himself up. “I’ll get dressed.”

“Good man,” Ellen nods. “Did you want something to eat?”

“No.”

“Sure?”

Dean pushes his curled, clawed hands back under the duvet, like if no one can see them then then they’re not there at all. “ _Yes_.”

She shrugs. "Let me know if you change your mind.” Dean looks pointedly at the door until she leaves.

Contrary to popular belief, Dean does actually know when he’s being a dick: he just doesn’t care. He already gets something of a free pass from most people, who are all too nervous to call the cripple an asshole. If people end up deciding Dean isn’t worth talking to, then _good_ \- it’s the best way to get them to leave him the hell alone. If the staff think he’s ungrateful or that he’s a bad person, then well, he already dislikes himself more than they ever could. The only problem is Sam, because no matter how much Dean tells him not to, his brother keeps on coming back.

Dean gets dressed, because Sam’s going to worry no matter what, and there’s no point in giving him extra ammo to stock his ‘Dean-You-Can’t-Keep-Doing-This’ artillery. When Sam turns up, his beam not quite masking the anxiety that’s made a home in his eyes, Dean tells himself to just be nice.

It doesn’t last all that long.

“Ellen says you’ve been spending more time with the others,” Sam says enthusiastically, like Dean’s an awkward toddler who keeps biting the other kids at preschool.

“I guess,” Dean tells the floor. If Sam’s expecting any more, he doesn’t get it.

“There’s a new resident, right? Joe or something?”

“Yeah, Jo.”

“What’s he like?”

“She."

“A girl, huh? What’s she like?” Sam grins. Dean doesn’t return the smile.

“She’s a kid, Sam.”

“Oh, _sure,_ ” Sam says. “And Ellen says there’s a new volunteer or something?”

 _For fuck’s sake._ “I don’t know, I guess so.”

Sam’s doing that thing where he tries to ignore how annoying Dean’s being, because he wants to be _understanding_ and _sympathetic_ , wants to give Dean time and space. Dean can almost imagine Sam mentally repeating the advice of those bullshit ‘Coping For Carers’ books he devours by the truckload.

Dean makes the mistake of moving his hand, catching Sam’s attention. His fingers are twisted and contorted, the nails digging into his palm.

“Dean, you’re-” Sam says, standing.

“It’s fine,” Dean says, pushing it under the loose material of his sweatshirt.

“Are you bleeding?” Sam says, moving closer.

“ _Leave it,_ ” Dean growls.

Sam makes a strangled noise of frustration in his throat; apparently, that was the last straw. “You are  _so_ frustrating,” he says tightly.

Dean twists his mouth and nods his head: _fair enough_.

“What is it, Dean?” Sam says, sounding lost. “Why won’t you let any of us help you?”

Dean looks at the clock. “Maybe you should-”

“Don’t bother,” Sam says, folding his arms. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine. Suit yourself.” Dean can put up with Sam’s presence for a little while longer. Maybe he should talk to Ellen about getting the wall tiled; it’d give him something to count.

Today, though, Sam has no intentions of going quietly or giving up easily. “I just wish you’d talk to me,” he says, trying to catch Dean’s eye and failing. “I miss hanging out with you, Dean. I miss my brother.”

“Your brother died in that crash,” Dean says. The words slip out without his permission, without emotion, an automatic response that he believes like he believes the sky is blue.

“Don’t you say that,” Sam says, somewhere between a warning and a plea. “Don’t you dare, Dean. I lost Dad in that crash, but I haven’t lost you. I _won’t_.”

“You sure about that?” Dean’s voice cracks. “Because in case you hadn’t noticed, Sam, I can’t get up. I can’t move my legs, I can barely move my arms, I live in a fucking _care home_ -”

“So move back in with me and Jess,” Sam says straightaway, focusing his tunnel vision on the one part of the sentence Dean knew he would. Dean groans.

“Dammit, Sam, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Dean?”

“You know. Don’t act like you don’t, because you _know._ We both know. I’m useless, Sam. I’m nothing. The sooner you give up on me, the better.”

There’s a pause. When Dean looks at Sam, he can see him trying to rationalise Dean’s words, trying to work his way through them- or, rather, work his way around them. Sam wants to pretend that none of this happening, to make it all go away, to find an explanation or excuse and tell himself that the old Dean is still in there somewhere.

Dean hated the person he was five years ago. He doesn’t know whether he finds it funny or revolting how badly they both wish that man was back.

“You’re tired,” Sam decides. “You’re tired, and you’re having a bad day. That’s all.”

“Right, because you’d know,” Dean snorts.

“No, I wouldn’t _,_ because you won’t tell me- but I do know that I’m not giving up on you. I care about you too much to even consider it. When you- after what happened- dammit, Dean, don’t you know what it did to me?” Sam says, any attempts at calm lost; crumbling rock can only withstand the thrashing of the tide for so long. “Walking in and finding you like that? There was blood _everywhere,_ Dean, there was so much fucking blood. Every night, every night when I try to sleep, I remember walking in and seeing you just _sitting_ in the middle of it all, just…” Sam’s voice trails off.

“You know what, Sam?” Dean says softly. “If you cared half as much as you say you do, you would have just walked out again. You’d have just walked out, and you’d have shut the door behind you.”

Sam leaves. He doesn’t seem to have anything left to say.

* * *

Things were bad; they have not gotten better.

It’s Friday, and Dean hasn’t left his room since Sam’s visit. Ellen and Pamela and Becky and Jody and even fucking _Ash_ have all tried to find out why, and none of them have gotten anything out of Dean other than a growl of “bite me”.

It’s three o’clock and Dean’s sitting in his room, staring blankly at the television. It’s tuned to some show he’s not watching, the characters talking while they jog on treadmills. The tight bundle of loathing that never leaves its space behind Dean’s ribs starts to pulse angrily. He has to turn away from the screen- too sick with jealousy, too bitter with hate.

As he turns, he catches sight of himself in the mirror, the one that’s been hung too low for most people, mounted at just the right height for someone who can’t even stand up and _look_ at themself anymore. The more Dean looks, the more he sees his own hate reflected back at him. The mess inside him grows barbs and drags them across his chest until he’s drawing his fist back, because he needs to do something- he can’t just sit here, can’t be here, cannot be _this_ -

It takes eight clumsy hits of his useless hands for the mirror to break properly, Dean just keeps on hitting and hitting, even when Jody is closing firm hands around his wrists and Becky is pulling his chair back. He manages to yank his right fist free and smash at the frame again, tiny slivers of glass forcing their way into his skin. He barely even feels the pain and it’s not enough, it’s never enough. He tries to lash out again, but this time it’s Ash who grabs hold of him, and he’s that much stronger. Dean struggles against the grip, choking out wordless sobs of anger, of loss, of frustration as Jody runs her fingers through his hair, softly murmuring “it’s okay, Dean, it’s okay” until Dean has nothing left inside.

* * *

 Bobby bandages his hands. Whenever his work allows it, he glances up at Dean’s face, but Dean won’t look at him.

“Lemme see the arms,” Bobby says, sitting back.

“I didn’t do anything to my arms,” Dean says heavily. The hurricane that’s spent eighteen months brewing inside of him has blown itself out, leaving nothing but still and dead air.

“I’m sorry, did I ask? Come on, off.” Dean sighs and tugs his sweatshirt off. He lets it drop to the floor and holds out his arms in front of him, palms up.

When Dean worked for the FBI, his dad by his side, they never handled the run-of-the-mill stuff. They shared the kind of life that Dean hadn’t thought existed outside of TV shows, and they’d been damn good at it- the best, actually. The Winchesters were known for dealing with the weird cases, the _dangerous_ cases, and as a result Dean’s certainly no stranger to scars. These ones are different, though.

They’ve faded a good amount in fourteen months, but they’re still noticeable. They’re long and raised, twin paths down both arms. Some days, when Dean’s hands are even worse than usual, he wonders if he hit a nerve or something and made a bad problem worse. Nobody’s quite sure, because he refuses to let them check.

Bobby makes Dean turn his arms over and bend them this way and that, until he’s satisfied that there’s nothing new.

“So?” Bobby says, sitting back in the chair. Dean takes this as a cue to pull his sweatshirt back on. It’s generally pretty warm in the home, but he doesn’t do t-shirts anymore.

“What?” Dean says when Bobby doesn’t add anything else.

“You wanna tell me why you went all Martin Sheen on that mirror?”

“Bad day,” Dean says gruffly. “Over it now.”

“Oh, really?” Dean doesn’t answer. “So if I told you I was getting your brother down here, you'd be fine with that?”

“What do you want, Bobby?” Dean says tiredly.

“I want you to be okay,” Bobby says, voice unexpectedly tender. “And failing that, I’d like you to be honest.”

“Good, because I don’t think I can do both.”

Bobby looks at him and this time Dean looks straight back, daring him to say something. After a few seconds, Bobby drops his eyes and shakes his head.

“Go on. Go.”

And so, patched up, Dean leaves. His nurse health checks are increased from hourly to quarter-hourly. He doesn’t leave his room. 

* * *

 “Dean?”

Dean closes his eyes and pretends not to hear.

“Dean?” the voice comes again.

“Go away, Cas,” Dean says. He has his back to the door, lying staring at the wall. Silence stretches- Dean counts ten seconds, thirty, sixty. “You’re still there, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Dean groans. He grips the bar on his wall and painstakingly hauls himself up and turns himself over. It’s an awkward process, but Castiel just leans against the doorframe and lets his eyes flicker around Dean’s room. It’s not the cleanest it’s ever been, but Dean can’t find it in him to care. Dean manages to arrange himself so that he’s sitting up against the wall, useless legs still hidden beneath the duvet.

“No offence, but I’m not exactly open for guests right now,” Dean says, shooting for humour and landing somewhere in cynicism.

“I’m fairly low maintenance.” Castiel gestures at the open door. “Can I?”

Dean shrugs. “If you want.” Cas shuts the door behind him and walks forward, picking his way around the piles of clothes and books heaped on the floor. The curtains are open and the lights are on- Becky’s work, not Dean’s. Cas drags the chair by the window across the room, sitting down a few feet away from Dean’s bed. He says nothing for a long time, just looking at Dean like he’s trying to figure out some complex puzzle.

“What?” Dean says wearily. He doesn’t like people looking at him.

“You look tired.”

“Funny. I’ve been sleeping about fourteen hours a day.”

“There’s more than one way to be tired,” Cas says, the kind of ambiguously deep bullshit that’s always made Dean want to puke.

“Don’t you have people to be seeing?” he says. “Friendship bracelets to be making?”

“Becky and Ruby have taken Jo and Lenore shopping, and there’s nobody else in the lounge. Besides, I wanted to see you.”

Yeah, Dean is really not in the mood for this shit right now. He stays quiet, his mouth pulling into a hard, tight line.

“I would have come to see you last week,” Castiel continues, “but Jody said it would be a very bad idea.”

“What, and this week she said ‘come on in?’” Dean snorts.

“No. In fact, she told me you were even worse than last week.”

“Then why did you come?”

“Because she told me you were even worse than last week,” Cas says, looking him straight in the eye. There aren’t many people Dean will make eye contact with these days, but there’s something about Cas that makes Dean automatically want to look at him when he talks. Most people don’t know what to do with Dean, babbling to fill the silence he leaves- Cas just sits with it, lengthens it, and Dean feels like he needs the eye contact to give the few words Cas delivers their full meaning.

That doesn’t mean Dean’s about to give anything back, though.

 “Listen, if you think I’m going to spew my heart out to you, then sorry, pal, but I’m gonna have to let you down,” Dean says. “Whatever crap Jody’s been feeding you, you can forget it. I’m fine.”

“Clearly,” Cas says, raising an eyebrow.

“You know what?” Dean says. "Screw you." He’s angry, though he isn’t sure who at- disgusted, too, but the target of that is much clearer. “You don’t know the first damn thing about me.”

“Then tell me.”

“What?”

“You heard. Tell me something about who you are.”

Dean glares, but Cas just stares back. “Yeah, I don’t really do that.”

“I’m counting that as a fact about yourself.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because- quit it,” he snaps, because Cas’ mouth has twitched up into a slight smirk, and Dean has the feeling anything he says will only make things worse. “How come I’m supposed to roll out my life story and you get to remain the international man of mystery?”

“I’m hardly secretive,” Cas dismisses.

“That so?” Dean says. “In that case, I guess you won’t mind me asking about your family.”

It’s a low blow, and it hits Cas hard. He stiffens, something unreadable passing over his face, before slowly, very carefully, saying “No, I suppose I won’t.”

“Good,” Dean says warily. “In that case, let’s talk brothers and sisters. How many?”

“I have an older brother, two younger half-brothers, and a younger half-sister.”

“Which half?”

“No skipping my turn,” Cas says, with an air of authority that makes Dean raise an eyebrow. “You just have Sam? No other brothers or sisters?”

“Yeah, just him. Which half?”

“Same father, different mother. Why don’t you like Sam visiting?” Cas says with no pre-amble or emotion, like he hasn’t just picked Dean up and hurled him into the proverbial deep end.

“It’s not exactly easy to explain,” Dean says.

“Try.” Dean’s a breath away from telling Cas to go fuck himself, but when he looks up Cas doesn’t look spiteful or on the verge of dousing him in saccharine reassurances. He simply looks like somebody who wants to try and understand.  “Please,” Cas adds, softer now.

And so, just for once- just for the hell of it- Dean tries.

“I did everything for that kid,” he says, staring down at where his hands are folded in his lap. “I had it drilled it into me from day one that I was put on this Earth to look after Sammy, that everything else came second. And I was happy with that, y’know? That felt right to me. This…” Dean gestures over at the wheelchair, lurking by his bed like a wolf that knows Dean can’t stay up the tree forever. “This doesn’t.”

Ever since Sam was pushed into Dean’s arms, while their house burned down around them and their mother drew her last breath, he’s been Dean’s responsibility. It was Dean who cooked his meals, Dean who taught him how to read and count and shoot, Dean who took care of them both. And then, after twenty-two years of having Sam depend on him for everything, came the crash. These days, Dean can’t drive a car or tie his own laces or even get up a curb without help. Sam’s desperate to help, more than willing to step into the carer role, and that just makes it a thousand times worse.

“You said you were ashamed,” Cas says softly.

“That’s not a question.”

“It’s not my turn to ask.”

“Go on, then.”

Dean has a hunch, and he acts on it. “You listed a lot of people just then, but I’m thinking you left someone off. Was there ever anyone else?”

Cas is quiet for so long that Dean thinks he’s not going to answer, but eventually he takes a breath and speaks. “Her name was Anna.”

There’s not much Dean can say to that. He holds Cas’ gaze and tilts his head in acknowledgement, trying not to let his own sorrow show. When that truck hit Dean’s car, he lost his father, lost his legs, lost his independence- but Sam was wearing a seatbelt, and Dean wouldn’t change that for all the miracles in the world.

“Why are you so ashamed of your body?” Cas asks. Dean snorts.

“Dude, you make it sound like it’s bikini season and I’m in a Muumuu.”

“You know what I mean.”

“C’mon, Cas,” he says, half-laughing, but Cas doesn’t stir. Dean’s laughter dies. “Are you really gonna make me say it?”

“Say what?”

“I’m a cripple,” Dean says, the word harsh and ugly. “A spastic. People look at me and they see forty pounds of metal with a burned-out shell sitting on top. They either stare or they just plain won’t look, and either way, they pity me.”

“I don’t pity you,” Cas states, with absolutely no doubt in his tone. “I see nothing to pity.”

Dean honestly has no idea whether to be offended or pleased. “Uh, you sure? I mean, I sure as hell don’t w _ant_ pity- but, you know, walking would be pretty nice.”

“Yes,” Cas agrees, “and it’s not fair that you’re paralysed. But Dean, is that really all you think matters? Do you really only define yourself by what you don’t have?”

“What else is there?” Cas looks incredulous.

“Try something,” he says. “Think of Sam.”

“I don’t-”

“ _Try_. Imagine your brother. Now, imagine that in that accident, it was him that ended up in a wheelchair. Would he still be Sam?”

“Obviously, but that’s not-”

“Then what is?”

Dean hasn’t got an answer. “You come on kind of strong, you know that?” he says instead. “I still don’t even get why you’re _here._ Why did you come and find me?”

“Because I like you,” Cas says simply, knocking the wind out of Dean’s lungs.

“Why?” he says after a beat, an honest question.

“Why not?”

“You want the reasons alphabetically or by general category?”

Cas shakes his head, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Dean Winchester, you are a cynical man.”

“Don’t I know it.”

* * *

Dean’s not sure that he starts to feel better, but he does feel more able to cope. Maybe it’s talking to Cas, or maybe it’s just the passage of time, but the raw emptiness in his chest- whilst still there- is getting a little easier to ignore. Dean still stays in his room, but at least he’s out of bed, and the carers seem relieved. Nobody says anything about it, though, and Dean’s relatively sure that Ellen issued an ‘on-pain-of-death’ order to bring that about.

The next Monday, a bunch of residents are in the lounge doing something or other, but Dean’s sure as hell not planning on coming out to join them. That’s a step forward that he doesn’t even _want_ to take.

It’s an unusually hot day, to the point where Dean’s actually shed his usually ever-present sweatshirt. He sits in his chair listening to music, with his eyes shut and his hands behind his head. The music is so loud that its turning his bones into speakers, bass reverberating from deep within him. As relaxing as it is, it means that he doesn’t hear the knock or see the handle turn. He feels the rush of air, though, and he opens his eyes as Cas opens the door.

Cas’ eyes are pulled to the heavy scars on Dean’s arms, and whilst he switches his gaze back to Dean’s face almost instantly, Dean’s already pulling off his headphones and grabbing his sweatshirt.

“Dean,” Cas tries, but Dean ignores him. “Dean, it’s eighty-five degrees outside.”

Dean pulls it on anyway, resolutely refusing to look at Cas until his arms are covered. Only once he’s safely swaddled in fabric does he nod in acknowledgement. “Hey.”

Cas shakes his head slowly, with a look in his eyes that’s grudgingly affectionate. “Only you.”

“What?”

“Only you would put self-consciousness that far ahead of comfort.”

“You know, ‘hello’ would’ve done,” Dean says. It sounds like he wants it to- relaxed, joking- but inside he’s tensed, on edge. There’s a damn good reason he never takes his jacket off. He waits for Cas to say something.

“May I?” Cas asks, gesturing to the chair nearby.

“If you want,” Dean shrugs. Cas pulls the chair up and sits down.

“What were you listening to?” he asks curiously.

“Oh no,” Dean says warningly. “We are _not_ starting that bullshit information trade-off again.”

“If you say so,” Cas says.

“How come you’re not out there with the others?”

“I believe you declined restarting ‘that bullshit information trade-off’.”

Dean actually laughs at that, an unexpected chuckle that feels strangely scratchy in his throat. It’s not exactly a regular part of his vocal line-up. “Fine, have it your way. AC/DC. Why no paper-mâché?”

“I’m mildly allergic to craft glue.”

“Cas, I swear-”

“There’s a new volunteer,” Cas says. “His name is Alfie. He seemed to have things under control, so I thought I’d come and see you.”

“Don’t I feel special,” Dean says, but he’s distracted. His window is open, but he hasn’t got a fan or anything, and he’s already sweating from the heat. Cas sees him plucking at the sleeves of his sweatshirt, and his face softens.

“Dean, just take it off.”

“You have no idea how wrong that sounded.”

“I’ve already seen the scars.”

“Doesn’t mean you need to see them again.”

“Your stubbornness is both pointless and counterproductive.” Dean inclines his head in a ‘you got me there’ gesture.

“ _Dean,_ ” Cas says. Dean scowls and yanks the sweatshirt off, folding it on his lap and placing his arms very deliberately palm-down on top of it.

“Happy?” he says sullenly. Cas doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“Are you going to come out into the lounge?”

“Let me think about this: no.”

“You should.”

“Why? I’m fine in here. I have music, I have books. I don’t need anything else.”

“I don’t think you mean that.”

“Think whatever you want, I’m still not gonna leave this room.”

“And I’m still not going to stop trying.”

“What, so you’re my carer now?”

“No, but I’d like to be your friend.”

Cas tends to pull things like that from out of the blue, state them with a sincerity and openness that never fails to knock whatever sarcastic comment Dean was lining up straight off the edge of his tongue. He opens his mouth a few times, but he can’t seem to persuade any words to come out.

“Do you really want to sit in here staring at your walls all day?” Cas says. “ _Really_?”

“I _want_ to be out fixing cars and fucking women, but that doesn’t seem to be on the cards.”

“Then get new cards,” Cas says simply. “Just because you can’t do some things doesn’t mean you can’t do anything.”

“Are you actually listening to yourself?” Dean demands. “You sound like you write women’s self-help books in your spare time.”

Cas just looks at him. His gaze is curious and focused, like he’s effortlessly parting Dean’s bullshit and seeing straight through to what’s really there. The idea freaks Dean out more than he can say.

“So what’re these amazing plans for getting me into the lounge?” Dean says, trying to lighten the mood. “Because if you’re just going to try wheeling me, I should warn you, I have brakes.”

“Please,” Cas dismisses. “I’m not that desperate. I do find it interesting that you haven’t asked _what_ they’re doing, though.”

“Some crap with craft glue.”

“No.”

“Some crap with beads.”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“They’re baking,” Cas says. “Becky said to make it clear to you that only the residents who helped _make_ the food are allowed a part in eating it.”

“You’re not seriously blackmailing me with baked goods. C’mon, Cas, I’m not a _child._ ”

“Fair enough,” Cas says, standing up to go. “After all, it’s only pie.”

Dean has absolutely no idea how it happens, but ten minutes later, he is somehow in the kitchen.

* * *

It’s getting more and more difficult to deny that Dean kind of likes seeing Cas. As pathetic as it sounds- as pathetic as it _is_ \- Cas’ visits are kind of the highlight of his week. Not this week, though. Today, as dickish as it is, Dean is praying to every god that’s never listened that Cas will have an appointment, or a stomach bug, or something else that’s _just_ serious enough to make him cancel.

No such luck.

Just after three, someone knocks on his door. Dean toys with the idea of telling them to go away, but knowing Cas, he’d just stand there like a confused dog until Dean let him in. So instead he calls out a fairly lacklustre “Hey”, and Cas opens the door.

“Board games,” Cas says as a conversation opener.

“No.”

“Monopoly.”

“No.”

“Jo’s playing.”

“No.”

“Are you capable of saying a word that _isn’t_ ‘no’?”

“Maybe.”

Cas gives him a somewhat despairing look and shuts the door behind him. He’s holding a small plastic container, and Dean looks at his curiously.

“What’s in the box?”

“There was a party at work,” Cas explains. “It was somebody’s birthday, and they brought cake and pie. It turns out that nobody there really likes pie- myself included. We’re trying to get rid of it.”

“You’re a disgrace,” Dean says. “What kind of pie?”

“Cherry.”

“A _disgrace,_ ” Dean repeats. “Though I guess that works out pretty well for me, so-” Dean’s words die as he looks down at the arm he’s just reached out. His hand is spasming, his nails digging into his palms. He hadn’t even noticed.

It’s a bad day for Dean in physical health terms- everything hurts and nothing’s working properly- and that’s exactly why he didn’t want Cas coming. He got out of bed twenty minutes ago, but he got less than two hours’ sleep last night. It feels like he’s spend most of the morning trying to cough and he’s starvingly hungry- he hasn’t eaten a thing, and doesn’t plan to try until his hands are back under his control.

“Dean?”

“Just shove it somewhere,” he says, pushing both hands back under the blanket folded on his lap. Somebody else might miss the action, or let it go. Cas, of course, does neither.

“Is this another futile restriction you’ve implemented solely to make your life more difficult?”

“Is there a way I can answer that and _not_ have you roll your eyes?”

Cas sets the container down, drags his usual chair over and sits opposite Dean. He doesn’t say anything at first, and Dean thinks that if he’s trying that technique of leaving a gap and waiting for the other person to fill it, it’s not going to work. Dean’s nothing but things-that-were and empty space. He’s the king of silence.

“Information exchange?” Cas offers.

Dean considers this. “The bullshit kind?”

“Of course.”

Dean wants to say something like “What makes you think I want to know anything about you?”- but the fact is, he does. He manages to overcome the instinctive reflex to be a dick long enough to nod. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Why won’t you eat that?” Cas asks, gesturing towards the pie.

Dean goes to speak, but he feels the bite of his nails in his palm- fuck, it must be bad if he’s actually noticing it- and he finds that the words don’t want to come out. “Ask something else.”

“I’m not going to mock you.”

“Yeah, you will. Either that or-”

“I’m not going to pity you either,” Cas says, and Dean gives up and forces the answer out; it’s easier than trying to put up with Cas’ quiet, polite relentlessness for the next couple of hours.

“When my hands are fucking up- more than usual, I mean- I… don’t really eat.”

“Why not?”

“That’s another question.”

“Then ask yours.”

“Fine.” And because Dean is an asshole who copes with being made uncomfortable by amplifying and broadcasting, he says “What happened to Anna?”

“She died seven months ago,” Castiel says- neutrally, measuredly, with the air of somebody whose grief isn’t fresh but whose pain won’t ever really leave.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. He means it.

“Why?” Cas frowns. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, but...” Dean shifts awkwardly. _Nice one, Winchester._ Cas takes pity and moves on.

“Why won’t you eat when your hands are bad?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Why do you care?”

“ _Dean_.”

It’s a bad day. Dean’s body is letting him down, does nothing _but_ let him down, and fuck it, he didn’t want to see anyone today. He wanted to bury himself, to lie still and silent under the dark pressure of his duvet and pretend it was soil, but then Cas showed and Cas _keeps_ showing and Dean thinks _you know what? Fine._

Dean can never resist baiting a bear, pushing for an outcome he doesn’t actually want, and he’s determined to catch Cas out- to prove to himself that yes, it _is_ too good to be true. He wants to know that Cas is just as fake as the rest of them, wants to turn and snap and watch Cas run so that he can know for sure where things stand.

He breaks.

“Because it’s embarrassing, okay?” he says. “You try spilling crap down your front whenever you try and pick up a goddamn fork, or not being able to cut a steak without help, or having to get a new sandwich three times in ten minutes. Sooner or later, it’s a lot easier to just give up and say you’re not hungry anymore. People stare at me, Cas, whatever I do and wherever I go, and that’s why I don’t go anywhere. I’m not normal, I don’t _look_ normal. I spend my whole damn life trying to make the things I do even the teeniest bit less degrading, because if I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning.”

Cas is supposed to laugh, or look at Dean like he’s the saddest dying little orphan in the world, or get awkward and apologise- but, being Cas, he has no interest in reading from the same script as the rest of humanity. He just sits there, eyes locked with Dean, like he’s absorbing everything Dean said and some things he never even put into words.

“Things are only embarrassing,” Cas says after a while, “if you let them be.”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“It’s true,” Cas says simply- and then, from nowhere, he says “I found my name embarrassing, as a child.”

“What, ‘Castiel’?” Dean says, screwing his face up. “What’s wrong with that?”

“When was the last time you met another 'Castiel'?” It’s a fair point. “Until I was about sixteen, I planned to change my name by deed poll as soon as I was old enough.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Once I stopped letting it embarrass me, it stopped being embarrassing. People find the name strange- that’s because it _is_ strange. People take note of the fact that you’re in a wheelchair because it’s not something they’re used to seeing. There’s nothing intrinsically shaming about attention.”

“Yeah, but having to get your food cut up’s not just different, it’s _weird,_ ” Dean says. “People don’t just single me out and go ‘huh, that’s not normal’- they single me out and go ‘fuck, that poor asshole. I’m so damn glad that’s not me’.”

“Then that’s their problem,” Cas says. “Why let it bother you?”

“Why do you have to dissect it like that?” Dean complains. “It makes me feel like a freak, okay? It’s like it's proof that I don’t fit in anymore- like I’m not even a _person._ I’m just some useless thing sitting in the corner and wasting the air."

“That’s why you’re so reluctant to take part in anything, isn’t it?” Cas says. “It’s not just that you dislike socialisation. You won’t take part in anything the home puts on because they do it for people with disabilities, and to take part is to admit you have a disability. Dean, you don’t adapt to the things you can’t do as you used to- you actively avoid them.”

“So?”

“ _So,_ you’re missing out. There are so many things you could do if you’d stop pushing the world away just because you don’t fit into the same space as before. It’s incredibly frustrating, because you think you’re good for nothing, and that couldn’t be less true.”

Cas leans forward, and against Dean’s better judgement, he finds himself looking back up. Cas’ eyes are intense, aflame, like he’s talking about a cause he believes in.

“You are not a waste, Dean. You have value and worth, much more so than you think."

Dean feels tired, suddenly, so very tired.  He doesn’t want to be having this conversation anymore, never really wanted to be having it in the first place. “That was way more than one question,” he mutters.

A small smile washes over Cas’ lips. “Maybe so.”

Dean nods without really knowing why. He feels vulnerable, exposed, like somebody’s peeled off his skin and separated out every nerve that still works. “I don’t want to go out there,” he says softly. “Not today.” He thinks his nails are digging into his flesh again, but he can’t be sure.

“I understand,” Cas says- and then “Is it alright if I stay a while longer?”

“Yeah,” Dean says simply, because he’s pushed and pushed and Cas hasn’t fled or pushed back. He’s still standing where he always was, as calm and as steady as rock, and so Dean says ‘yes’ because he doesn’t know how to say ‘please’.

Dean picks up his headphones and pulls them on. Cas gets the message and picks up a newspaper lying discarded on Dean’s floor, and they sit and listen and read. After three and a half songs have passed, Dean wheels his chair across the room and grabs the container Cas left on the table, along with the fork he left on top. Neither of them say a word as he returns to his place by Cas’ side, and neither of them say a word as Dean eats it, every bite, dropping the fork onto his lap four times and picking it up again every time.

It’s good pie.

* * *

“I’m scared, okay?” he admits the next time Cas visits.

When Cas arrived, he tried to persuade Dean to go out and join the others, but failed miserably. Luckily for them, Alfie (who Dean has since discovered is the human personification of a ray of sunshine, and as such should be kept away from Dean at all times) seems happy to hold the fort in the lounge by himself.

“Why?” Cas says. “He’s your brother.”

“Yeah, but last time he visited… it wasn’t pretty, Cas. I said crap, he said crap- I don’t know. Hell, I don’t even know if he’s still coming.”

Friday will mark June 1st- one whole month since Sam’s last terrible, terrible visit. A part of Dean thinks that if he were Sam, he’d just never come back again, but Sam’s not like that. Sam’s got morals and determination, and that air about him that says ‘ _I’m hugging you in my mind, and not a word you say will make me let go’_. Sam is six foot four of survivor’s guilt and dogged love, and Dean knows for a fact that he still phones Ellen weekly to check up on how Dean’s doing.

So when Sam turns up on the first- with a look on his face that lets Dean know Sam hasn’t forgotten last time, but that he’s completely willing to- Dean isn’t shocked. The harder Dean pushes Sam away, the tighter he clings on. He’s a little like Castiel in that way, Dean thinks, before wondering why the hell he’s thinking about Cas at all.

“Think of how things were before,” Cas had advised. “It doesn’t _matter_ that you’re in a wheelchair now. That’s like claiming that Sam cutting his hair would somehow change who he is.”

“Like Sam would cut his hair,” Dean snorted. “So what, this thing’s just the four-wheeled metal elephant in the room?” he challenged, tapping the wheel of his chair.

“It’s more like…  your shoes. Your coat. It’s a part of you and your life, yes, but not a definitive one. It’s not positive or negative. It’s just _there_.”

“Oh, I get it now. With a few magic words and a lot of positive thinking, Sam will just magically forget that I’m sitting in a friggin’ _wheelchair_.”

“You’re not listening. He won’t forget, but he won’t care. He _doesn’t_ care, Dean. The only person who cares is you.” Dean had tried so very hard to interpret that as bitchy or unnecessary, but it wasn’t- it was just honest, genuine advice, and Dean had eventually grudgingly promised he’d give it a go.

And so now, Dean catches Sam’s eye. He smiles and gives a slight nod, like he always used to, and it actually freezes Sam in place. He doesn’t seem to know whether to come or go, to sit or stand. It would be funny if it wasn’t so damn sad.

“Hey,” Dean says eventually, to try and spare Sam the pain. Dean realises as he says it that it’s probably the first conversation he’s started with Sam since the crash. _Talk about a day of firsts._

“Hey,” Sam says back, the word far too careful in his mouth to be completely casual. He takes a seat. “How’re things?”

Answers ready themselves in Dean's mind- a bitter ‘crappy as ever’, a nasty ‘how do you think?’, a blunt and dismissive ‘fine’- but he swallows them all back down. “Yeah, okay, I guess.” Another pause. “How about you?”

“Good, thanks, yeah,” Sam says. There’s a silence, long and threatening to be awkward, but Sam’s a lawyer (nearly): the one thing he’s never short of is words.

“I, um. I’m thinking of proposing to Jess,” Sam says with disarming casualness. Dean stares, open mouthed.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he says, a small grin on his face. “I think so, yeah. I love her, and we’ve both wanted it for a while, and I think we have enough money for a wedding. Or we will have, with some work.”

“Damn, Sammy,” Dean whistles. “What kind of dress are you gonna wear?”

It’s been way, way too damn long since Dean last heard his kid brother laugh like that.

The hour passes with no major disasters. There are a good handful of pauses that last too long and sentences that sound like the final draft of an essay, each word selected as having the lowest potential for catastrophic connotations- but there are smiles too, and even a few more jokes. They haven’t spoken for a month now, and it’s been over a year since they last really  _talked_. After last visit, Sam probably spent the whole of his birthday worrying, brooding and blaming himself. That’s how Sam’s always been, picking up the weight of the world and setting it on his own shoulders. It hits Dean for the first time that maybe trying to keep Sam’s hands away from Dean’s own problems only made Sam grab more, made him fumble around blindly and pick up some that were never even there.

Once their time together is up, Dean holds up a hand to stop Sam from going.

“One sec,” Dean says.

“Dean?” Sam says, but Dean ignores him. He roots around in the piles of papers and magazines and books steadily breeding on his bedside table, knocking most of them onto the floor, until he finds the creased, long-forgotten card. Dean hesitates, about to chicken out, when he hears a calm, steady voice in his head: _think of how things were before._

Dean thinks of all the birthdays and Christmases when their dad was busy tracking a suspect he technically wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near, leaving them both locked in a motel room somewhere with $5 and “ _just be good, would you?”_. Dean would steal Sam a candy bar from the store, or search through his old shirts until he found one that was too small- or, when they grew older and Sam grew taller, one which was too big. He would do anything he could to give Sam _something._

And so Dean hands over his crappy, battered piece of folded card, the ‘Happy Birthday Sam’ printed on the front by his and Cas’ linked hands, and he tries to act like it’s nothing, because that’s what he’d have done before. He’d do anything just to have that stupid, crappy something that somehow became _everything_ when viewed through Sam’s eyes.

“Kinda late, I know,” Dean says.

Sam doesn’t seem to know what to say. He keeps running a hand over the card- down its spine, across the words written inside, carefully tracing the swirls of the letters on the front. “Thanks, Dean,” Sam gets out eventually- and shit, if he’s going to cry, Dean’s abandoning ship. There’s only so much he can handle in one day.

“No problem,” Dean says awkwardly. He only said it to try and keep Sam calm, but Castiel’s stupid life philosophy and his sage advice and gentle eyes seem all come to mind, and Dean thinks that he said ‘ _no problem’_ ; that maybe, if he doesn’t want it to be a problem, then it doesn’t have to be.

* * *

If Dean still had legs that worked and hands that didn’t feel like they were permanently swaddled in foam, then he thinks that he’d take a risk and go for it. He’d probably flirt obscenely with Cas, or ask him on a date, or just say ‘fuck it’ and shove him up against a wall- tangle his hands in that stupid, carefully mussed hair, and hope with everything he had that Cas kissed back. As it is, all Dean can do is try and repress the sad, sad fact that he genuinely has a crush on a man who probably views him as a fragile teenage girl, whose self-esteem needs boosting.

It would be easier, he thinks, if Cas was _literally anybody else._ It would be easier if Cas didn’t insist on sitting slightly too close to for Dean to breathe easily, or if he didn’t catch Dean’s gaze and hold it like he can’t find a single reason to look away, or if he didn’t keep treating Dean like some valuable commodity instead of an empty, crumpled thing. If Cas talked about having a girlfriend or a boyfriend, or if he flirted with everything that moved, then at least Dean would know where he stood. As it is, he’s not even sure Cas knows _how_ to flirt.

One thing that Cas definitely does know how to do, though, is to wheedle. It doesn’t take him long to work out if he sits there and _looks_ at Dean, focusing on making his eyes as wide and blue (Dean’s accused him of wearing contacts at least three times now, but he keeps on denying it) as possible, then there’s a fairly strong chance that Dean will just give up and do whatever Cas is suggesting. Dean’s usually made of tougher stuff than that, but what can he say? As stupid as it might be, Cas is different. Besides, it’s never a huge deal- nine times out of ten, all Cas wants him to do is talk.

It’s not always about serious things- in fact, it’s usually not. They talk about Sam and Jess and weddings and colleges, about bands and food and books and shows. Dean gets Cas hooked on Dr. Sexy, and once or twice Cas alters his visit times so that they can watch it together, Dean explaining the complexities of the plot that only a long-time fan can grasp while Cas listens intently, never taking his eyes from the screen. At first, Cas invests a good proportion of his time and energy in trying to persuade Dean out of his room _,_ but Dean keeps on refusing, and with time Cas pushes less and less. He still asks every time, but it seems that he’s content to just spend time with Dean.

Sometimes, of course, they do end up talking about more serious things. It’s not in Cas’ nature to pretend that problems aren’t there, so when he spots something he finds strange, he doesn’t hesitate to highlight it.

“Your music is very loud,” Cas marvels one day. Dean had taken off his headphones when Cas arrived, but he knows you can hear the tinny thump of the music from across the room. “Doesn’t it hurt your ears?”

“A little,” Dean admits. “I like it that way.” Cas tilts his head enquiringly, and Dean shrugs. “Makes it feel real.”

“How so?”

“These are hopeless,” he says, gesturing at his legs, “and I know my hands are there, but they’re… not. It’s like wearing gardening gloves or oven mitts or something, 'cept I can’t ever take them off. Some days the world just seems really, really far away. It’s good to _feel_ something, really feel it. Y’know?”

“I think I do,” Cas says softly, and he doesn’t mention it again.

They don’t always talk about Dean, of course. They talk about Cas for hours at a time- about how much he hates working in taxes, how he’s always wanted to help people but lacked the drive for medicine, how he loves his family but never sees them anymore. Dean tries to push that last point a few times, but that area of Cas’ history has got a lot of padlocks on it.

“I will tell you,” Cas promises once, his face full of regret and a desperation to be understood. “Just... not yet.”

“Sure thing,” Dean says- because he gets it, he does. Talking about yourself is one thing; talking about family is a whole new level of Fuck No. If Cas says it’ll come, then it’ll come- Dean can wait. He’s hardly going anywhere.

* * *

Summer creeps its way in. After much teasing from Dean, Cas starts turning up in more casual wear. The first time Cas arrives in jeans Dean almost regrets that decision, because it suddenly becomes a thousand times harder  _not_ to stare. Apparently, denim can do beautiful, beautiful things.

After a series of minor battles, they develop a routine where Cas shuts the door behind him and holds out his hands, a stern look on his face. Dean tends to provide a few half-hearted refusals for old time's sake before he pulls off his sweatshirt and lets Cas lay it on the side, the cool air blissful against Dean's overheated skin. He very definitely does _not_ think about the fact that Cas is kind of undressing him by proxy, and he keeps his arms turned down in his lap to hide the scars.

Dean finds himself telling Cas things he never meant to say, things that he thought were indelibly stamped with ‘NOT FOR DISCUSSION’ in vicious red ink.

He’s telling some light-hearted story or other when he says “And I’m not really supposed to be near sharp things,” and the conversation suddenly dips into a more sombre territory. Dean finishes his sentence, and after a few seconds, Cas speaks.

“Do you ever still think about…”

“What…?” Dean trails a finger up his wrist, and Cas nods. Dean pulls a face.

“I… no. Not exactly.”

“Go on?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously?”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Cas says. “But I’d like to know.”

Dean glares once more for good measure, but then he decides he might as well. After all, nothing else has freaked Cas out.

“I got low,” he admits. “I’d been crashing with Sam and Jess for two months, and things weren’t getting better, and it just seemed so _easy_. Like it was the simplest solution, the obvious thing to do.”

Sam and Jess had left the house to go grocery shopping, and they weren’t due back for a couple of hours. It wasn’t exactly planned out- shit, he wouldn't have used a _razor_ if he'd put any damn thought into it. Everything had just built and built until he was sitting in his room, staring out the window, and he realised he couldn’t think of a single reason not to.

“And I mean, I’m just as low now,” Dean says. “Fuck, maybe I’m even lower, but I’ve figured out that it’s not as easy as I’d thought. People watch you, and people stop you, and it’s just… it’s a lot of effort, man. There are too many risk factors, all these ‘what if’s and ‘maybe’s, and it’s all too damn complicated. If you gave me a knife now, I wouldn’t do anything with it- but if I didn’t wake up tomorrow?  Gotta be honest, Cas, I’d be pretty damn fine with that.”

Dean’s said way more than he meant to, opened the door to a memory he thought he’d locked away for good, and he blinks hard, forcing himself back into the present. “That clear?” he says.

“Yes,” Castiel says neutrally. “I think so.”

“Good,” Dean says, a curt nod. With some effort, he drags the conversation to a new topic.

They talk a while longer, swapping information, and soon Dean forgets the moment of solemnness. It’s easy to get lost with Cas, both of them drawing out likes and dislikes and memories and hopes from the other, carefully sifting through their personal caches to pick out the facts that don’t hurt too much to share.

A little over an hour later, when Cas rises from his chair, he hesitates for a moment. He leans forward, his hand gently touching Dean’s arm, and Dean might not always feel all that much but he sure as hell feels _that._

“Dean?” Cas says.

“Yep?”

“If you didn’t wake up tomorrow…” Cas’ eyes find Dean’s, and there’s pain lying in them. Not pity- Cas continues stubbornly refusing to show a trace- but pure, sincere pain. “I wouldn’t be fine with that.”

“No?”

“No. Not at all.” He keeps looking at Dean, and Dean’s sitting there looking back and wishing he had something more to say- that he didn’t mean it, that everything’s going to be okay- but he he’d be saying it to _Cas_. Cas is the one person Dean doesn’t- _can’t_ \- lie to.

“See you next week,” he says instead, and Castiel nods and lets go.


	3. Chapter Three

“Dean Winchester, it has been nearly a week since you last graced us with your presence. Get your butt outside or you ain’t eating today.”

“That,” he informs her solemnly, “is abuse, and neglect, and I _will_ file a report against you, Ellen Harvelle.”

“Like you’d concentrate for that long,” she snorts. “Okay, no, you know I wouldn’t do that. But you should still come out. We need our weekly dose of annoying asshole.”

“Has Ruby not been here this week?”

“Why yes, Ruby _is_ working today. She’ll be so pleased to hear you’re asking after her.”

“You are not a good woman,” Dean grumbles, but when she holds the door open he follows her through it. She gives a small, contended nod, and walks with him to the dining hall.

“Dean!” Jo says excitedly when she sees him.

“Jeez, I’m not _that_ exciting,” Dean says as he takes a place at the table. “Don’t go falling out of your chair.”

“At least I could get back _in_ mine.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“So’s your face.”

“ _Really_?” Ellen says disapprovingly. Jo tries not to giggle.

“You haven’t come out,” she accuses, “in _ages._ ”

“If that’s a poorly concealed gay joke, then I find it crude.”

“ _Are_ you gay?” she asks curiously.

“A little,” he shrugs. Becky looks up sharply and Dean’s fairly sure she’s desperately repressing an enquiry about whether or not homosexuality has a genetic basis.

“You think he’d have better fashion sense,” Ruby muses, setting his food down in front of him. “Hey, Dean.”

“Hey, bitch,” he acknowledges.

“I’m sorry, who was filing reports again?” Ellen says, raising an eyebrow.

“Ruby,” he changes it grudgingly.

“Thank you,” she says sweetly, and sits down by Ava. Dean glances around the table. He counts Ava, Jo, Howard, Maggie and Channing, with Ruby, Ellen, Becky and Meg hovering around.

“On a potentially related topic, how’s tall, dark and handsome?” Meg asks. She’s stirring a bowl of soup for Ava, while Ruby feeds Howard and Becky helps Channing.  Jo and Dean can feed themselves, and Maggie is one of the residents who, whilst not able to physically eat, simply enjoys being around other people. Dean regards this outlook as highly suspicious.

“I’m great, thanks,” Dean replies easily.

“You don’t even have dark hair,” Jo says disapprovingly.

“I meant _Castiel,_ ” Meg says, drawing the word out.

“How would I know?”

“Because you two are like, one step away from moving in together?” Jo snorts. “Dean, he’s pretty much the only person you ever _see_.”

“I see Sam,” Dean argues.

“That don’t count,” Ellen dismisses. “You’re related.”

"And?"

“Seriously, though, what was it this Monday? Three hours? Four?” Jo says.

“So _what_?”

“ _So,_ I didn’t even know you could put up with people for that long. I thought you'd break out in hives or something.”

“What do you two even _do_?” Ruby asks in fascination, wiping Howard’s mouth with a napkin.

“We go skydiving,” Dean deadpans. “We talk, mostly, if you really want to know. Sometimes we watch TV. It’s hardly rampant sex in the bathroom.”

“I don’t know," Jo muses, "I reckon the ensuite ones are big enough to make it work."

“This conversation has ended,” Ellen declares. “Pick a new topic. _Any_ topic. I ain’t fussy.”

“Is your brother still dating Jess?” Ruby asks Dean.

“ _Other than that_ ,” Ellen says dangerously.  Dean wonders why every female in this place is desperate to sleep with the human equivalent of Huggy Bear.

“Engaged, actually,” he says cheerily, always grateful for a chance to ruin a demon’s day. Jo squeals in delight, Ellen grins, and even Channing manages a faint smile. Becky looks a little like she’s trying not to cry, but Ruby just shrugs.

“When… did… he… ask?” Channing asks.

“Tuesday. He’s been a total pain in the ass about it.”

Sam came by again on the 1st of July and spent a good ten minutes angsting about not being sure if she’d like the ring, and what he’d do if she said no, and if he was _really_ ready before Dean finally persuaded him to man up and get the hell on with it. It had felt pretty good, actually- even Sam looked strangely pleased, like he’d missed having his big brother beat his ass about the dumb things he was or wasn’t doing. He’d phoned Dean on Tuesday evening to inform Dean, with the poorly-shielded glee of somebody who’s been proven wrong and couldn’t be happier about it, that he’d asked and Jess had said yes without a second’s thought.

Talking to Sam might be getting easier, but it's a Band-Aid on a festering wound. Dean still feels the same way about Sam coming to visit- the only real difference is that now, he’s better at covering it up. Cas’ advice about shame and pity and everything else hovers in Dean’s mind, but it hasn't put down roots. In the dead of the night, Dean can sometimes come to admit that maybe, just maybe, what he thinks about himself is a little irrational- but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped believing it. It’s why he’s currently eating a bowl of fries and occasionally shooting longing glances at the club sandwich on Jo’s plate.

“Well, good for him,” Ellen grins. “Let’s see you as best man, huh?”

And fuck, if that doesn’t just turn Dean’s happy little cloud of _Sam’s-getting-married_ into one huge-ass rainstorm. “Yeah, how about no,” he says.

“You know he’ll ask, right?” Ruby says. “You _are_ his brother.”

“He’ll at least want you to go,” Becky agrees.

“Well, he can count that _right_ out,” Dean says, shaking his head. “No way. No way in hell.”

“Cool it, Winchester,” Meg says, clearly amused. “No one’s forcing you at gunpoint.”

“Jess might,” he says grimly. As kind-hearted as that girl is, when she sets her mind to something, she damn well does it.

“You’ve got one of two choices, Dean,” she’d said, all that time ago when she stood at the foot of his hospital bed. “You can come back home with us, and we’ll get you back into therapy- can you not pull that face? If you don’t want to go back to the woman you quit seeing- after one session, I should add- then that’s fine. We can find someone else, but we _are_ gonna have to find someone. That’s option one.”

“Please let option two be alcoholic,” he muttered.

“Two,” she said, ignoring him, “is this.” She’d handed him a leaflet, her stern look cracking when he winced as he moved his heavily bandaged arms. He looked over the brochure and felt his face harden into a blank mask- a hard shell designed to protect and shield, one he wears often and well.

“You want to drop me off at the pound?” he said.                          

“It’s not like that,” Jess said, her voice gentler now. “They usually deal with cases more severe than yours, but given the circumstances… you need help, Dean. You need someone to make sure you don’t hurt yourself again. Now, that could be me and Sam- and we can do it, honestly. I can take time off work and Sam can take time off school, and it’ll work out. We _want_ it to work out. But it doesn’t seem right to not give you some say in this, so I wanted you to know… there’s that. If you’d prefer.”

He’d wanted to hate her for it. Really, he had. His entire body had itched to apologise sarcastically for stopping her and Sam from fucking like rabbits whenever they pleased, to swear he’d _try his very bestest_ to magic his legs back into life, to spit out some bitter comment about how he could tell when he wasn’t wanted. He thinks he probably _did_ say some of those things- he doesn’t remember everything. Morphine was one hell of an experience. But whatever he said and whatever he thought, he had ended up choosing option two.

The only reason Dean moved in with Sam and Jess in the first place was that the doctor told them Dean would need time and help to adapt to his ‘new circumstances’.  Well, fuck it. Dean _hadn’t_ adapted, not one bit, and the idea of forcing Sam and Jess to put their lives on hold to take care of him made him want to crawl out of his skin. If going into some crappy home (that his insurance would pretty much cover, thank fuck) would let them get on with their lives- if it would make Sam worry even the tiniest bit less- then it was the only option Dean _could_ take. He moved out a week later.

Deant tries to picture going to Sam's wedding. He imagines the old family friends who sent ‘condolences’ cards (the ones Dean turned into placemats), and Jess’ family who don’t know the first thing about Sam’s, and Sam’s college friends who spent years hearing Sam boast about his older brother’s high flying career, all packed into a church hall together. He imagines them turning and looking as the door bursts open and Dean rolls in. After that, he has to stop imagining for his own damn good.

The worry sticks with Dean long into the night, and it’s still festering at the back of his skull when Cas shows up three days later- and, unfortunately for Dean, he’s got that look in his eyes that says he Has A Cause.

“I have been,” Cas says, “unforgivably lax.”

“Huh?” Dean says, like the eloquent bastard that he is.

“I wanted to get you more involved with things,” Cas says, “I seem to have had the opposite effect.”

“You’re not about to lure me out with breadcrumbs,” Dean says. “I left my room like, three times last week. That’s hardly hermit-status.”

“That isn’t going to cut it, Dean,” Castiel says firmly. “It’s a beautiful day outside.”

“Outside?”

“As in _not_ in the building.”

“As in not happening,” Dean retorts. Leaving his room is one thing, but leaving the building? Shit, it’s been… Dean can’t even say when the last time  _was._ Certainly not this year.

“You continually do things you once claimed you couldn’t.”

“Like?”

“Joining the others,” Cas says. “Talking about things that are uncomfortable. Taking off your sweatshirt, eating when you aren’t well- you’ve come a long way, Dean.”

“Would you knock it off?” Dean says, annoyed. “I’m not some dog you’re training.” He knows Cas doesn’t mean to be rude, but it just sounds pathetic. He’s listing things like they’re _accomplishments_ , like they’re achievements to be proud of, when they’re nothing but strange, pointless peculiarities of Dean’s strange, pointless life.

“I’m aware,” Cas says. “But Dean, there’s so much more you can do. There’s a whole world out there, and whilst it’s very tempting for me to just stay in here with you, I wouldn’t feel right doing so.”

Dean decides to ignore any implications of _that_ , falling back to bitterness like an alcoholic falls back to a bottle. “You wanna know what’s out there? Fine, I’ll tell you. One: people staring. Two: not being able to get through doorways. Three: people staring. Four-”

“You said ‘people staring’ twice.”

“I’ll say it a lot more times if you let me finish the list.”

“Then I’ll end it pre-emptively,” Cas says. He sits back and regards Dean, who folds his arms.

“Oh, no,” he says. “I’m not getting sucked in by the whole ‘baby blues’ thing today. You want to go out and frolic through the flowers or whatever? Do it yourself.”

“Does the home have a garden?”

“Yeah, but no,” Dean says, seeing where Cas is going with this.

“Why not? Nobody would be able to see you there.”

“What’s the _point_?” Dean damn-near whines.

“Vitamin D?”

“What does that even do?”

“I don’t know, but I’m assured it’s important.”

Dean squints at Cas. “How likely are you to give up on this?”

“I think you know the answer.”

"You're the worst, you know that?” Dean complains.

“I had suspicions,” Cas agrees. “You’re going to have to lead the way.”

“And if I lead us into a supply closet?” Dean says, running a slightly-shaking hand through his hair. He’s pretty sure he looks like shit- he showered earlier, but he’s wearing the same kind of thing he always does, and _fuck,_ he’s only wearing a t-shirt, his arms aren't covered-

“I trust you to stick to your word,” Cas says, as Dean wheels himself over to his dresser and yanks out his sweatshirt. He pulls it on over his head and, for once, Cas doesn’t comment. Dean’s guessing it's a ‘one hurdle at a time’ thing. Cas opens the door and holds it, looking at Dean enquiringly.

“Okay,” Dean says. “Let’s go.”

He leads Cas down the hallway then turns right, bringing them to a set of sliding glass doors. Dean hits the door release button and waits, glancing around guardedly. The only thing that could possibly make this worse would be if someone was around to make a big deal of it. He catches a glimpse of Lilith passing by, but she doesn’t stop to make conversation, and that’s more than alright with him.

Dean rolls himself out into the sunlight, almost blindingly bright. Cas follows, the door closing automatically behind him, and they head for the corner of the garden. There’s a high fence around the place, the grass underneath carefully mown and lovingly maintained, and whilst it’s not exactly exotic, it’s certainly not unpleasant. There are usually more people around, especially when the weather’s this good, but there was some big trip out to a park in town and a lot of the residents went. Dean’s pretty grateful- it means that, for now at least, he and Cas have the space to themselves.

Cas finds a chair from somewhere and drags it over as Dean positions himself against the fence.

“So,” Dean asks, "how’s life in the land of Castiel?” He still thinks this is stupid, and he keeps expecting faces to pop over the fence and start cackling or something- but the sun is warm on his face and birds are twittering away in the trees, and if everyone else stays the hell away, he thinks he could maybe learn to like it. 

“Slow,” Cas says. “As ever. Work is… soul-destroying.”

“Dude, just quit,” Dean says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “There’s so much else you could do.”

“In a perfect world, yes,” Cas agrees, "but I need the money. I’m not really interested in translation work, and most of the work I _do_ want to do is either volunteer or too low-paying to be a feasible career option.”

“I thought you said your parents were pretty rich?” Dean says, trying to drag up what little knowledge of Castiel’s family he has.

“My father is, yes. He lent me the money to purchase my house, but I’d rather not ask him for more.”

“How come?”

“We’re no longer in regular contact. It would be…. I would prefer not to.”

“Fair enough,” Dean says, storing that away with a mental post-it note saying 'Ask Again Later'. Sitting outside, surrounded by the fresh air and bright sunshine, is neither the right place nor time to get into the convolutions of Cas’ family situation.

“I guess I’m lucky,” Dean says. “There’s not much I have to spend money on. ‘course, I have to pay to stay here, but insurance handles a pretty big chunk of it. Sammy pays some, Dad left me cash in his will, and it more or less works out.”

“I make enough to get by,” Cas says, “I just don’t make enough that I could afford to _not_ make that much anymore.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean says. Shit, it’s hot out here. “Still sucks to be trapped in something you don’t wanna be trapped in.”

“Very true.”

Dean pushes his sleeves up a little- not enough to show off the scars, but enough to get some cool air to his flushed skin.

“When are you seeing Sam again?” Cas asks.

“Uh, not ‘til the first. He might call before then, though. I don’t know.”

“You could call him,” Cas suggests.

“I guess,” Dean says, and fuck it, this is ridiculous. He struggles his way out of his hoodie, bunching it up on his lap. In the sunlight, his scars look worse than ever- no matter how much he turns his arms, he can’t quite hide them. He’s just gonna have to hope no one comes over to say hello.

“Is there anybody else you’re in regular contact with?” Cas asks curiously.

“Like who?”

“Family? Friends? A partner?”

Dean actually snorts with laughter at that one. “C’mon, Cas, I think I would have mentioned that by now.”

“Nobody?”

“Nope. Sam’s the only family I got left, I don’t really have any friends, and it’s not like anybody’s gonna date this,” he says, gesturing at himself.

“What do you mean?” Cas says, frowning.

“Uh, it’s called baggage? And it’s not so much that I have it as that I _am_ it. Can you imagine anyone wanting to try and handle this clusterfuck? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

“I would,” Cas says, and the of the air in Dean’s throat solidifies all at once.

“Hypothetically speaking,” Cas continues, as Dean attempts not to choke on oxygen. “I wouldn’t be put off by ‘baggage’, as you insist on calling it. I think you’d be surprised by how few people would.”

“Maybe,” Dean says weakly. “I’m kind of out of touch with the whole dating scene.”

“Yet another reason to venture out of the home.”

“One-track record, Cas,” Dean says, some normality restored. “How about you? You got a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“Open to both, currently with neither,” Cas says.

Dean nods. “Same here. Like, same situation. You know.”

Dean has no idea why it’s always _men_ who make him flustered. He can charm a girl out of her dress in five minutes and two martinis, but a _guy?_ Hot guys have a way of turning him into a gibbering wreck- a man incapable of finishing a sentence, much less using it to seduce. Really, it’s incredible that Castiel has gotten more than two words out of him.

“Hey, douchebags,” a voice calls, and Jo wheels herself towards them. Panic rips through Dean, his stomach seizing like someone has it in a vice. Does he have time to put the hoodie back on? Will that seem even weirder? Shit, she’s going to see, she’s going to see and she’s going to _realise-_

“Breathe,” Castiel says out the side of his mouth as he smiles and waves at Jo.

“What?” Dean half-gasps.

“ _Breathe,_ ” Cas stresses, and then Jo is next to them.

“You okay?” she says to Dean, who tightens his grip on the wheels of his chair.

“Fine,” he says, his voice strained. Motherfuck, didn’t he use to chase criminals for a living? _Breathe, you moron._ He swallows hard, and then again. “Yeah. Fine. You?”

"Bored,” she shrugs.

“You didn’t wanna hit up the park with the others?”

“Nah,” Jo says. “I was never really into the whole ‘sitting back and watching’ thing. Like, it’s a tree. Okay. Can I shoot it? No? Then why am I wasting my time?”

“Like you could shoot a gun,” Dean scoffs. Jo raises an eyebrow.

“Because I’m disabled or because I’m a girl?”

“Try because you weigh, like, a hundred and ten pounds,” he says. Anxiety still crawls under Dean’s skin like ants chewing their way through his muscles, but if Jo has noticed the scars then she isn’t saying anything.

“I mean, how old are you?” Dean continues, the casual nature of the teasing helping a little. “Nineteen? Twenty?”

“Twenty-three, thank you very much,” she says, glaring. “And I’ve been shooting since I was four. I mean, I used to. Lately, not so much. You know how it is.”

Sure, Dean knows how it is. He knows Jo’s been given a new anticonvulsant for the pain in her spine, and that she’s started carrying a notepad around with her to write down the things she forgets. He knows that her diagnosis has been changed from relapsing-remitting MS to secondary progressive; the kind that doesn’t get better. He knows that most twenty-three year old women don’t end up in care homes.

Jo’s made it very clear that she isn’t looking for pity, though, a school of thought that Dean can well and truly get behind. They talk for a while longer and, slowly, the tension begins to drain from his muscles. By the time he and Cas go back inside, he’s feeling almost good.

“Was that as bad as you had imagined?” Cas asks as the doors slide open for them. Jo’s still in the garden, but Dean’s starting to crave the reassurance of having four walls he knows around him.

“Could’ve been worse,” Dean admits grudgingly as they slow to a stop by the guest book where Cas needs to sign himself out. Cas checks the time and scribbles it down.

“Would you be willing to do this again next week?” Cas asks, setting the pen down.

“If you really want,” Dean says.

“I’ll hold you to it,” Cas says, and he flashes a quick smile. “Have a good week, Dean.”

“You too,” he says.

Cas nods and leaves, and Dean watches him go. It takes him a few seconds to realise that he’s still smiling, and when he does he scowls at himself before turning to go. Something stops him, though, and on a whim he leans over and picks up the visitor’s book. It's never occurred to him to look through it before, but he’s suddenly curious.

Dean flicks through the pages, looking at the different people who have come and gone in the past few months. It hurts a little to watch the ‘ _Sam Winchester_ ’s get further and further apart. “Only got yourself to blame,” Dean mutters under his breath as he keeps on turning pages.

Volunteers have to note the times they arrive and leave- some fire safety bullshit- but there’s another section at the end labelled ‘reason for visit’. A few are individualised- ‘ _visiting Channing Ngo’_ turns up every two weeks in tiny, neat handwriting, and Sam writes ‘ _visiting family’_ every single time- but the majority are just a generic ‘ _volunteer’_.

Dean gets through February and March and reaches April, and that’s when Castiel’s name starts showing up.

“Castiel Novak,” he reads out loud. How the hell did he not know Cas’ surname until now? That’s a shitty thing, Dean thinks, as he starts counting entries for ‘ _Castiel Novak- volunteer’_. There are three months of signatures in the book, which is a little jarring- Dean simultaneously feels like Cas has been coming for much longer, and like he only just arrived. He reaches the last page and goes to put the book away when something catches his eye.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmurs as he looks down at the most recent signature.

 _Castiel Novak- Monday 9th July- 2.45PM – 5.05PM- visiting Dean Winchester._  

* * *

 “They aren’t looking at you.”

“Did I say they were?”

Cas gives Dean one of his trademark ‘cut the bullcrap’ looks. Dean stares back insolently.

“They’re not going to come over here,” Cas says.

“And if they do?”

“I’ll make them leave.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, good luck _making_ Meg do anything.”

It’s warm today, though clouds are gathering above them, and Cas managed to win the war of inside-or-outside. It’s about four in the afternoon, and Meg’s sitting on the other side of the garden with two of the home’s other residents. That Dean is out here- without a sweater, or even sleeves- is nothing short of a miracle.

“I can’t come next week,” Cas says unexpectedly. “My apologies.”

“Dude, it’s no big deal,” Dean says. “I don’t _own_ you. You don’t have to spend your free time slumming around here- I mean, I’m pretty sure you’ve racked up enough good karma by now."

“That isn’t even remotely why I come.”

Dean goes to answer, but something wet falls on his face. He looks up, only to be hit in the eye by another raindrop. “And God has heard my prayers,” he says. Cas rolls his eyes good-naturedly and then stands.

They head back to Dean’s room, and Dean tries not to care that Cas is blowing him off next week, because it’s really nothing worth caring about. Cas has a life, and he can spend that however he wants- if he’s found something he enjoys doing more than hanging around here, then who is Dean to blame him? Cas isn't gonna come every week anymore- so what? If his visits get less frequent and after a while, he stops coming altogether, it’s no big deal. Not one bit.

It’s pretty bad, Dean reflects, when not even _you_ believe your own bullshit.

It’s full-on raining by the time they’re back in Dean’s room. He stays in the wheelchair rather than fumble about with awkward transfers, and Cas pulls up a chair to sit by him. Dean tries to think of something to say that is not completely pathetic.

“So what’re you doing next week?” he says. “Hot date?”

Mother _fuck._

“Hardly,” Cas says. “Family.”                      

“Oh,” Dean says. “Then, uh, good luck?”

Cas smiles, but it’s a brief, pained-looking thing. “That isn’t necessary. I’m just seeing my brother.”

“Which one?”

“His name is Inias. He’s two years older than I am.”

“You two talk often?”

“Not at all. We’re only meeting because-” Cas falls silent suddenly, looking at Dean like he isn’t sure whether or not to go on.

“What?” Dean says. It’s rare for Cas to talk about his family, and Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued.

“It’s the anniversary,” he says - and then, when Dean’s face betrays that he has no idea what Cas is talking about, he adds “Anna’s death. It’s been a year.”

“Crap,” Dean says. “I’m sorry, man.”

Cas nods slightly, drumming his fingers on his leg. “We’re visiting her grave. She’s buried in Colorado, about eight hours from here- near where we used to live.”

“Family home, huh?”

“Actually, no, I’m from Illinois. Anna went to college in Colorado and remained there afterwards.”

“And you went there too?”

“No, my college was in Oregon.”

“Damn,” Dean says. “Pretty long way from home, man. You didn’t miss your family?”

“I started boarding school at eleven years old,” Cas says.  “I was used to it. The only reason I moved to Colorado was to- was after what happened.”

“Cas?” Dean says. Cas looks sad, scared, like he’s trapped in somewhere he really doesn’t want to be and he can’t find a way out. He looks at Dean and there’s something almost _apologetic_ in that look- like anxiety, like guilt.

“Anna was disabled, Dean,” he says.

Dean sits in silence as Cas keeps talking. “She was attacked when she was thirty years old. A knife attack- we never did understand the motivations of the man who did it. He caused irreversible damage to her spinal cord, and she never walked again. She could barely move her arms. She needed a carer, and I wasn’t willing to leave her in the hands of strangers, so I moved to be with her. I was there until she died three years later- pneumonia. I thought she just had a bad cold. I didn’t- I missed the signs.

“I moved out almost immediately- I couldn’t bear to be around her things. I picked Kansas on a whim. I was- I wasn’t okay, Dean. I arrived in late July and I don’t think I left the house for more than two minutes at a time until November. Eventually, the grief started to clear, and in December I found a job. I don’t know how the others are coping. I haven’t seen my family since the funeral.”

Cas is still looking at Dean, desperately looking for _something,_ but Dean doesn’t know what it is or whether he’s even capable of giving it. Fuck, he’s no good with this kind of thing. He can barely even understand his own emotions, much less someone else’s. He’s really not somebody you want to come to for advice.

All the same, hearing Cas’ story is like having someone put his heart in a vice and slowly tighten it, because all he can imagine is standing over Sam’s paralysed body, sprinkling dirt on Sam’s grave, and it hurts Dean in a way he didn’t know he could still hurt. He finds himself reaching forward before he can talk himself out of it, making a clumsy grab for Cas’ wrist to administer what he hopes is a reassuring kind of pat, one of those ‘grab-and-shake’ deals for men who aren’t sure how words work.

Instead, though, his hand clutches too early and he finds himself curling his fingers around the curve of Cas’ hand. Cas’ eyes flicker down, surprised, and whilst Dean’s instinct is to pull away like he’s been stung, he makes himself leave it in place; he’s pretty sure yanking his arm back could only make things _worse._ He watches as, slowly, a smile pull at Cas’ lips- it’s small, and it’s saddened, but it’s there.

“Thank you,” he says quietly- but there’s still that strange look to him, that guilt. Dean wants to ask about it, but he has no idea how to phrase the question. Besides, there’s something more than empathy in his gut- something bubbling up thick and black like tar, curdled and heavy inside of him.

“So that’s why you come here, right?” he says, hating himself even as the words leave him mouth. “Because of her?”

 _That’s what you see when you look at me?_ is what he’s barely refraining from saying. _I’m your way of making amends for the sister that died on your watch? I’m your charity case?_ It’s not fair on Cas to think that way, and Dean’s trying as hard as he can to burn the bitterness from his stomach, but it has no interest in going without a fight.

“It was why I started volunteering here, yes,” Cas says. “Having seen what Anna went through- how isolated I know she felt- I wanted to try and help others in similar situations.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, and he can’t believe that he’s actually _angry_ to hear it, can’t believe that he’s so fucked up that he’s making this about him. He just- he thought, just for once, that there was somebody looking at him and seeing something other than the damn chair. That Cas wasn’t coming to exorcise his sister’s ghost or to try and peel away another layer of guilt- that he was here because he wanted to talk to Dean Winchester, not because he wanted to visit a Disabled Person.

“Yes,” Cas says. “That was what made me come for the first time.”

It’s more than Dean can handle. He goes to pull his hand away, unable to keep pretending everything’s okay, but Cas just grips tighter. The strange guilt in his eyes has changed to a quiet kind of determination, a slowly burning fire.

“It is not,” he says, “why I came back.”

* * *

Later that night, Dean eats dinner with the others without needing to be asked, much less coerced. He’s not sure why, except that the knowledge that he won’t be seeing Cas for a little while has made him feel weirdly empty. He pretends not to notice the way Becky keeps smiling at him like a proud parent and takes care not to mention Castiel’s name. They’re assholes about the whole thing already; Dean’s sure as hell not going to tell anyone that he gave Cas his _phone number_.

“Here,” he had said, pushing his cellphone towards Cas. “The number’s saved under ‘me’. Put it in your phone or whatever. If things start going down shit creek and you need a paddle… I’m here, okay? Normally check my phone like, once a month, and I can’t promise I’ll be any use, but-”

“Dean,” Cas had cut him off. “Thank you.”

Dean had shut up and waited while Cas pulled out his own phone and entered the number in. In his old phone, Dean had his own number saved as ‘Batman’, along with ‘Bitch’ for Sam and ‘Master of the bitch’ for Jess. His cellphone had been destroyed in the crash, and the replacement one Sam bought him has everyone listed by first and last name- no pictures, no custom ringtones, nothing but strings of digits. It wasn’t a big thing; he just found he didn’t feel like laughing all that much anymore.

Cas slid the phone back over, the screen showing a new contact.

“My number,” Cas had provided. “For the same reasons.”

After Cas left, Dean took his phone back out and changed ‘Castiel Novak’ to ‘Cas’. Just ‘cause.

Now, Dean’s listening to the electronic rings of his phone and wondering if Sam will pick up. He’s not sure that phoning is the right idea, and he’s starting to wonder if he even _wants_ Sam to pick up when the ringing stops, the line clicks, and Sam answers.

“Hello?” he says. Dean can hear the TV in the background, thinks Jess is probably there, and he seriously debates hanging up. Only the knowledge that Sam will phone straight back if he does keeps him on the line.

“Hey,” Dean forces out. The silence from the other end lasts a fraction longer than usual.

“Dean?” Sam says eventually.

“No, the Queen of England. Of course it’s me.”

He hears Sam laugh, and it’s a good thing to hear. “Is everything okay?”

“I haven’t set fire to the place, if that’s what you mean,” Dean says, rocking the wheel of his chair under one hand. “I don’t know, man. I thought I’d check in on you. I guess you’ve spent the last few weeks stressing over which kind of roses you want in your bouquet.”

“Do you even get different kinds of roses?”

“Sure you do. Different colours, right? Didn’t you read Alice in Wonderland?”

“No, I actually graduated above a third-grade reading level.”

“Shut your bitch mouth and tell me about the wedding.”

The conversation is surprisingly easy. The awkward pauses are still there, but they’re less frequent, and Sam doesn’t seem to feel as obligated to fill them- the desperation that comes with grabbing onto anything Dean says, like it could be the last drop of rain in a long, long drought, has gone. It makes things much easier for both of them.

“So I’ll see you next week?” Sam says, over an hour later.

“Like Becky would let you miss it,” Dean says.

“Is she the scary lady who makes dirty jokes every time I say ‘brief’?”

“No, that’s Ruby.”

“Wonderful,” Sam says dryly. “See you then.” Dean hears him swallow, and when Sam speaks again, he’s rushing his words. “Dean, I just wanted to say how great-”

“Sam,” Dean interrupts. “Can we not?”

 _Think of how things were before._ Dean doesn’t want to think of reasons why they should be different; he’s afraid they’ll be too persuasive.

“Sure,” Sam says. “Sure, sorry. I just- you know, right?”

“I know,” Dean confirms, and Sam seems happier for it. They say their goodbyes, and for once, Dean finds himself going to bed with a smile on his face.

* * *

The week… passes. Dean calls Sam twice and leaves his room three more times, which he thinks is pretty good going. He’s starting to find that when he doesn’t see anyone, he actually feels _worse_ rather than better, and he really doesn’t know what to do with that information. Friday morning, he gets called to see Bobby, and he almost welcomes the distraction.

After Bobby’s done poking and prodding, Dean goes to pull his hoodie back on.

“Ain’t you hot?” Bobby says. Dean shrugs.

“A little.”

“Then leave it off, you idjit.”                                                                                                                                               

Dean’s ready to tell Bobby to go screw himself, but at the last second he hesitates. “If you’re that desperate to get my clothes off,” Dean grunts, and he crumples the thing in his lap. He thinks that when he gets back to his room, he’ll probably throw it in the back of his wardrobe and leave it there for a while. It doesn’t mean anything, but then again, it kind of really does.

“So how’re you?” Bobby says, oblivious to the minor milestone he’s just witnessed. “Honestly.”

“I’m okay.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Fine, maybe I’m not okay,” Dean admits. “But I’m… closer than I’ve been in a while. I think.”

“Is that so?” Bobby says with interest. “That’s good to hear, boy. That’s damn good to hear. Anything I can do to get you the rest of the way there?”

“Leg transplant.”

“Ha, ha,” Bobby says dryly, and Dean smiles charmingly at him. “For real.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“You considered going back to PT?”

“Right, because me and PT got on so well.” Dean quit physical therapy as soon as it became apparent walking was never going to be back on the cards. He’s had hundreds of fights with Sam and the care home staff about it, but they can’t _make_ him do anything, a lesson Sam learned the hard way.

“You know how important PT is,” Bobby says. “Especially for your hands. You could get a lot more use out of them than you do now.”

“I heard that makes hair grow on your palms.”

Bobby’s face twitches as he stifles a laugh. “At least tell me you’ll think about it?”

“I’m not going back to the same doctor,” he warns. His last physical therapist had been the most patronising bitch he’s ever had the displeasure to encounter, something he wasn’t afraid to say straight to her face.

“Funny you should say that,” Bobby says. “I started working with a new guy a couple weeks back. He’s good, and he’s sure as hell not gonna pussyfoot around you. Let me give him your name.”

“Fine,” Dean groans. “If it’s gonna get you off my case. So, we done here?”

Bobby shifts awkwardly, and Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Something you wanna share with the group?”

“You’re not gonna wanna hear it,” Bobby begins.

“Not exactly filling me with confidence here, Bobby.”

“Dr Singer,” Bobby corrects, temporarily distracted. “But shut up and listen for a minute. I know you’ve said no before, but this place has got a damn good counsellor, and I wanna put you in contact with her. You got someone for your hands, and that’s good-  but you need someone for your head too.”

“What’s wrong with my head?” Dean says defensively, ridiculously.

“I’m thinking it can be a pretty dark place sometimes,” Bobby answers. “Could be useful to let someone with a flashlight and a map take a peek.”

Dean goes to give his answer, but finds he doesn’t have one.

“Well?” Bobby says.

“I’m thinking, okay?” The instinctive, obvious response is ‘are you fucking kidding me?’. After all, working for the FBI was a lot more stressful than sitting on his ass all day, and Dean coped just fine then- whiskey is one hell of an effective drug when self-administered. He doesn’t even want to _think_ about what dad would say if he heard his oldest son was considering ‘talking to someone’. Counselling is for the pathetic and sad, therapy for the plain friggin’ mad, and everyone else just smiles and gets on with it.

Except, you know, that’s not working out so well.

If Dean could drink and drive and fuck his feelings away, it wouldn’t be an issue, but sitting in a room by yourself for twenty-four hours a day has a certain way of making you face the facts. Cas is a good listener- Sam too- but there’s only so much they can do, and only so much Dean’s prepared to let them try and do. He can’t help but feel like he burdens Cas enough as it is, and there’s a whole plethora of crap he refuses to go anywhere near with Sam. He figures it’s about time he learned some better coping strategies-for their sake if nothing else.

“I’ll give her your name,” Bobby says- but it’s cautious, questioning, giving Dean the chance to fight back.

“You seriously think I can change things?” Dean blurts out, and shit, out of all the things he could have said, why did he pick that? Bobby doesn’t laugh, though; he fixes him with a despairing look that just _screams_ ‘really?’

“Dean,” Bobby says, “that you even asked that makes it pretty clear you already are.”

* * *

When Monday turns up, Dean keeps as busy as he can. He’s spent a year and a half being bored out of his mind, but it’s only lately that it’s actually starting to bother him. Rather than dragging him down into apathy, the boredom twitches beneath his skin like an itch he can’t scratch, urging him to get out of bed and _do_ something. The problem is that there’s not exactly much he can do.

Ash is working, and he spends a few hours in Dean’s room talking cars and classic rock. As pathetic as it is, Dean finds himself glancing at his phone every few hours, but nothing comes through. _Good,_ he thinks as night comes and he still hasn’t heard from Cas. _That means things are going well._ It’d be nice, though, if Cas could just let him know things _are_ going well.

It rains on Wednesday- a heavy, vicious downpour, underpinned by the bass line of heavy thunder-claps. Dean opens his window to watch, though his body’s general suckishness at regulating temperature means he keeps a blanket draped over him. He hangs his hands out of the window, letting the water drum against his skin, relishing the jolt that goes through him every time the sky flashes white or the air fills with noise. Storms make Dean feel alive.

When his phone beeps, at first he thinks he imagined it. He decides to ignore it and holds out for a whole five minutes before curiosity wins out and he shuts the window. Dean wheels himself over to the table where he’s left his cellphone out and sees ‘One New Message’ for what’s probably the first time in… uh, ever.

_Cas – 19:01:  
Can I come and see you? _

Dean raises an eyebrow at the phone. The winds are reaching gale-force outside and the sun’s clocked off early, plunging the world into darkness. Does Cas seriously mean _now_?

With ‘10’ being ‘near-normal’ and ‘1’ being ‘please just fucking amputate them’, Dean’s hands today are probably a… 4? Maybe a 5? He concentrates and, thanking the wondrous creation that is autocorrect, manages to send a reply.

_You – 19:07:  
Now?_

Dean waits, drumming his fingers against his chair, for the next message.

_Cas- 19:08:  
If you don’t mind_

“Of course I don’t mind, you dumbass,” Dean tells the phone. Right, like he’s gonna turn Cas away two days after the anniversary of his sister’s death. This is the _least_ he owes Castiel.

Besides, Dean misses the stupid bastard.

He tries to put as much into writing, but he thinks that ‘5’ might have been over-generous. In fact, things are probably closer to a ‘3’. He tries stabbing at the buttons with an outstretched finger, but his fingers keep tightening or slipping so he hits the wrong keys. The third time he has to delete the word ‘Anna’, he narrowly refrains from launching the phone at the wall, and decides that he probably needs to lower his expectations.

_You- 19:14:  
Sure_

It’s not the most welcoming-sounding thing, but Dean figures it’s clear enough. Whilst the care home has ‘preferred’ visiting hours, their general philosophy is that visitors are welcome at any time as long as they don’t disturb the other residents. He should probably let someone know, though. Dean wheels himself out into the corridor and finds himself face-to-face with Ruby. Not ideal, but it’ll do.

“Got someone coming by,” he says before she can open her mouth. “That’s okay, right?”

“ _You’ve_ got someone coming by?” Ruby says, torn between amusement and disbelief.

“Do you need me to say it again slower?”

“Have you ever considered a career in comedy?” she says. “But yeah, of course it’s okay. Sam, I’m guessing?”

“Castiel, actually,” Dean says, in a carefully-casual tone of voice that pretty much dares her to make something of it.

“Huh,” Ruby says, after just a beat too long. “Well, have fun.”

It’s not much of a win, but Dean will take what he can get.

Dean retreats to his room and waits, getting distracted by the storm again. Most people wouldn’t dream of leaving the house in this kind of weather- what the hell is Cas playing at?

Twenty minutes later, Dean hears a familiar knock at his door.

“Come in,” he yells, and shit, Cas has _definitely_ looked better. There are dark rings under his eyes and his hair is plastered to his face- though his clothes don’t look wet, which Dean puts down to the thick tan coat bundled in his arms. He smiles when he sees Dean, but it’s small and very, very tired.

“You can shove your coat wherever,” Dean suggests- and then, nodding at a chair, he orders “Sit.”

Cas puts his coat by the door and obeys without comment, dropping down opposite Dean.

“Hello,” Cas offers eventually. His voice is even more gravelly than usual, like he hasn’t slept for a couple of years now.

“That bad?” Dean says with a sympathetic wince. Cas considers this.

“Worse,” he says, but he doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to elaborate. He’s staring down at his hands, dragging his nail back and forth across the fabric of his pants. Dean feels like he should ask something, but he has no idea what to ask.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says suddenly. “Coming here was selfish.”

“What? No! I told you I’m here if you need to talk about this crap, and I meant what I said.”

“But I don’t need to talk about it,” Cas says. “I actively _don’t_ want to. I just- I got back this afternoon and-” He breaks off and takes a breath. “Ghosts followed me back. I didn’t want to be alone with them.”

“I get it,” Dean says. “You’re always welcome here, Cas. You know that.”

The surprise in Cas’ eyes when he looks up makes Dean realise that holy shit, no, he actually didn’t. Well, there’s something new for the both of them.

“Would it be awful to ask you to distract me?” Cas says, and the mental images that conjures up in Dean’s head are _really_ not family-friendly.

“Like how?”

“Talk. Tell me what you’ve been doing. How things are with you.”

“You really want to hear me bitch about my life?”

“I like talking to you, yes.”

“Poor misguided bastard,” Dean says- but he’s never seen Cas this flat, this empty-looking, and he finds that he really doesn’t like it. “I don’t know, things have been… average? I called Sam a couple times.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, we did wedding talk. He’s letting Jess handle most of it. She’s the kind of person that never has to hunt around for a pen, if you know what I’m saying. She’s super-organised, she’ll make it work out.”

“Have they set a date yet?”

“They’re thinking late summer, so not for like a year yet. Not that you’d know it’s July,” Dean says, nodding towards the window.

“It does seem to insist being terrible,” Cas agrees. Almost on-cue, lightning splits the sky. A few seconds later, a rumble of thunder shakes the room, and Cas jumps slightly.

“You scared of thunder?”

“Indifferent,” Cas shrugs. “You?”

“Love it,” Dean says. “Always did, but even more these days.”

“Like with the music?”

“What?” Dean says.

“The volume.”

It’s only then that Dean remembers the conversation he had with Cas about headphones. Geez, why does he have to _remember_ this stuff? It’s disarming. Dean’s not used to people treating him like he’s really here, much less like he matters.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s the same thing.”

Cas nods silently, and Dean scratches around for something else to say. He spends so much time locked inside his own head that trying to drag someone else out of theirs is hard work. There’s only one thing he can think of that might work, and it’s not exactly sunshine and rainbows, but it’s all he’s got.

“I saw Bobby,” he says.

“Who?”

“Dr. Singer. He’s a, uh, doctor.”

“Is everything okay?” Cas asks immediately, and guilty pleasure ripples down Dean’s spine at the concern in his tone.

“Just a check-up. They’re a giant pain in my ass, and they’re usually a huge waste of time.”

“But not always?”

There’s a decent sized gap before Dean speaks again. “He thinks I should go back to PT. And that I should talk to someone- like, a counsellor or something. He was surprisingly non-dickish about it.”

“Oh?” Cas says. Dean swears, if the words ‘and how does that make you feel?’ come out of Cas’ mouth he won’t be held responsible for his actions. “What did you say?”

“Said I’d give both a try,” Dean says, and Cas’ face lights up like the brightest shop window at Christmastime, his lips curving into a soft smile. “My crazy really does make your day, huh?” Dean snorts.

“It’s rare to hear you taking care of yourself,” Cas discloses, still smiling, and wow, Dean is _really_ done talking about this.

“How about you?” he asks, nodding at Cas. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “I needed some time away, that’s all. Both from my family and from myself.”

“Too much time to think?”

“Something like that,” Cas says, suddenly closed-off. “When do you see the counsellor?”

As far as attempts to change the subject go, that one was pretty freakin’ obvious, but Dean’s prepared to let it slide.

“Next week, I think,” Dean says, pulling a face. “Bobby offered meds too- for the, uh, crazy- but I said no. Other than that, he said to just… keep doing what I’m doing. Take things step-by-step and all that. Which I found offensive, by the way,” Dean adds, nodding down at his feet. Cas’ face creases into a smile as he tries not to laugh.

“It sounds like you have a plan,” Cas says. “If you’d let me, then I’d like to help.”

“You probably should,” Dean says, “seeing how this is all your fault anyway. I’d never even have moved away from the TV if it wasn’t for you sticking your nose in and bothering me.”

“Maybe I should bother you more often.”

“Whenever,” Dean shrugs. “I don’t have all that many hobbies.”

“Then I’ll come back tomorrow after work. If it’s stopped raining, we can sit outside and you can abuse me for not understanding your pop culture references.”

“Only if you’ll insult me in Mandarin.”

Cas says something that Dean sincerely hopes is ‘bite me’.

* * *

Dean hears from the physical therapist first, a fucking _bear_ of a man who turns up in his room early one morning.

“You gonna get up, or am I gonna have to drag you?” is the way the guy chooses to introduce himself.

“That doesn’t sound very supportive,” Dean complains into his pillow.

“On the contrary, I’m very supportive. Just not to people lyin’ in bed. You want that kind of thing, you gotta hire someone a whole lot prettier than me.”

“Tease,” Dean complains, but he drags himself up all the same, twisting so that he’s leaning back against the wall. He’s only wearing a t-shirt and boxers, so he makes sure the blankets stay pulled up to his hips. “Alright, I’m up. You’re the new PT guy?”

“Name’s Benny,” the therapist says. “From what I understand, we’re gonna be workin’ mostly on your hands. That right?”

“Unless you got a magic cure for legs, then yeah.”

“If I find a magic cure, brother, you’ll be the first to know about it,” Benny says, drawing up a chair. “Why don’t we talk options?”

Benny seems like a good guy- he’s got a wife and a kid and despite his curse-heavy, tough-guy act, he’s clearly crazy about his family. By the time Benny leaves, Dean’s starting to think he could actually enjoy working with this guy.

His therapist (a term Dean tries not to think about too much)  turns up a few days later. Luckily, Dean’s dressed this time- it’s mid-afternoon, a couple of hours before Cas normally arrives.

“My name is Tessa,” she says, sitting down opposite his chair. She’s dressed in black from head to toe, which seems a little moody for a therapist, but her smile is bright enough to make up for it. “It’s good to meet you. I really hope this can be the start of something good for the both of us.”

“Dating clients doesn’t sound professional.”

Tessa laughs. “Okay, so therapy can be intimate, but not like _that._ I’m just here to talk.”

“About what?”

“Whatever you want,” she shrugs. “Whatever’s helpful.”

“How am I supposed to know?” he complains. “You’re the therapist, not me.”

“You’re the patient, not me,” she challenges, pushing Dean’s respect for her up by another notch.

“You don’t work here, do you?” he asks, and she shakes her head.

“No, I’m independent- I met Dr Singer through a mutual friend. He did his research, decided I was good enough for his patients, and every couple months he hands me a referral.”

“Way to make me feel special.”

“He clearly thinks very fondly of you,” Tessa says. “He said as much himself.”

“He actually said that?”

Tessa hesitates. “More… implied.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like it,” Dean chuckles. The day Bobby delivers a plain, open compliment will be the day Dean friggin’ tap dances.

They don’t really talk about anything in actual depth- at her request, Dean outlines what he does most days, then tells her a little about his accident and his condition. He is very brief in his explanation of the cheery refrain ‘ _history of suicidal behaviour- one previous attempt, warranting brief hospitalisation’_ written in his file. He can tell she’s interested in that, but when she presses it and he clams up, she backs off instantly. Tessa says she’ll come back at the same time next week, and whilst Dean’s left feeling a little uncomfortable- like someone’s opened him up and tried to map his colours, tried slipping fingers under his skull to reach the prize within and not quite set the bones back right- it could definitely be way worse.

July draws to a close and August takes its place. When Sam arrives on the first, Dean’s already waiting in the hallway.

“We’re going outside,” he says by way of introduction, “because Cas will kick my ass if we don’t.”

The confusion on Sam’s face is a beautiful thing, but he follows all the same.

Say what you like about Castiel, once he fixes himself on something, he goes the whole nine yards. Cas has taken his mission to heart, and between him and Benny, it seems the days of people putting up with Dean’s bullshit are very much over. It might not feel like a good thing, but it probably is. Once they’re settled outside- and Dean’s gotta admit, he’s getting to like the feeling of the sun on his face- Sam launches straight in.

“Cas is that volunteer, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean says warily.

“How come he’s so invested in getting you outdoors?”

“He’s trying to drag me back into society.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “And how’s that going for him?”

“He’s probably drinking a lot more than before.”

Sam laughs. “Seriously, what’s brought this on?”

Dean stiffens. He’s not about to discuss his own personal brand of crazy with a kid who still looks at the broken, flickering lightbulb of Dean’s soul and sees a sun. “What’s it to you?”

“Do you like him?”

“He’s a friend, sure.”

“No- do you _like_ him?”

“Really?” Dean says, trying not to show his relief at the route Sams taking. “ _Really?_ Way to channel your inner preteen, Sammy. Wanna paint my toenails and complain about your training bra rubbing you?”

“I’m just saying,” Sam says, holding his hands up, but he’s got that shit-eating grin on his face that says ‘ _oh, you’ve got it bad’._ Dean scowls, which only serves to make Sam smile harder.

He and Cas have been spending pretty much every visit in the garden, and Cas comes three, four times a week now. By the end of the second week, Dean barely even notices other people coming into the garden or going back indoors. He guesses you could call that progress. Somewhere in the first week of August, Cas comes up with something new.

“Nuh-uh,” Dean says as soon as he hears it.

“It’s a Sunday,” Cas says. “Barely anyone will be in town.”

Dean doesn’t answer.

“What’s stopping you?” Cas asks.

“Nothing’s _stopping_ me-“

“Good,” Cas interrupts smoothly. “Then let’s go.”

Dean glares; Cas looks back calmly.

“How long do you wanna go for?” Dean asks warily.

“Ten minutes?” Cas suggests. “Fifteen?”

 “I am losing track of the number of times I’ve said this,” Dean says as he turns to the door. “Hobbies. _Get some_.”

Cas follows, pausing by the office door. “I have hobbies,” he says distractedly as he peers through the glass.

“Clearly not enough,” Dean responds as Pamela opens the door.

“He said _yes_?” she says incredulously.

“Love you too,” Dean says.

“We’ll be back in under twenty minutes,” Cas promises.

“Be careful,” Pam warns. “You got our number, right?”

“Are you serious?” Dean complains. “It’s a goddamn walk, not a trek to Mount friggin’ Doom.”

“Just doin' my job,” Pam shrugs.

“I understand,” Cas says. “I have your number, yes, and mine is on my volunteer agreement form.”

“Good man,” Pam says. “Take care of him, wouldya? He’s a grumpy little thing, sure, but we’d miss him if you lost him somewhere.”

“He’s like the bad-tempered cat everyone’s weirdly fond of,” Ruby calls from where she’s doing paperwork.

“I am actually here, you know,” Dean says irritably.

“Did you hear something, Ruby?”

“Children,” Dean says. “My care is in the hands of children.”

He looks up at Cas, who’s looking thoroughly confused by the turn of events. It’s rare for Dean to see Cas standing up, and the way Dean has to tilt his head back to try and catch Cas’ eye only worsens the heavy pull in his stomach. He nudges Cas’ hip with his hand instead, and spreads his hands in a gesture of ‘ _why are we still here_?’ when Cas looks down.

“We’ll return soon,” Cas tells the staff, and then he’s hitting a button and the doors are sliding open. Dean watches, his eyes sliding out of focus for a second as the mechanical whirring fills his ears. It’s sunny outside, the sounds of cars in the distance and birds nearer by, and when Cas steps forward it takes a beat for Dean to follow. He pauses once they reach the end of the drive, twisting his head around and looking back. The name of the home is written on a sign above the door- a sign Dean hasn’t seen in eighteen months.

“Dean?”

“One sec,” Dean says. His hands are shaking. His hands _hurt._ They feel like somebody’s grabbing them and squeezing, clenching the flesh like they mean to mince it, and he’s not so sure he should go ahead with this. After all, if his hands are bad, then he’s in bad health, and it’s not a good idea to go outside when your health is bad, right? Cas will get that.

“I don’t know why you insist I have no hobbies,” Cas says before Dean can make his case.

“Because you spend your free time hanging out with a cripple?”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Cas says, instant and harsh like a dead man’s finger jerking closed on a trigger. Did Anna get called a cripple? Dean doesn’t know- it’s best, he decides, not to ask. He shrugs instead and tries to ignore the weight of Cas’ eyes on the side of his face.

“Language stuff doesn’t count as a hobby, y’know,” Dean says- and then, as Cas starts walking, he finds his hands pushing forward rather than letting himself get left behind.

“Why not?”

“It’s school.”

“It’s learning.”

“Same thing.”

“Learning can be enjoyable.”

Dean barks out a laugh. “You _definitely_ need to meet Sam. I bet you were one of those kids who brought the teacher apples.”

“Why would I bring my teacher fruit?”

“I… actually have no idea. But hobbies are supposed to be _fun_. Learning lists of verbs or whatever can’t be fun.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“No. I’m genuinely curious.” It’s a little embarrassing how hard Dean has to think. He’s never liked filling out the ‘Hobbies’ section of forms, because once he got past ‘babysitting’ and ‘shooting’, he was pretty much stumped. ‘ _Waiting for Dad to come home’_ doesn’t look good on a resume.

“I watch TV, I guess,” Dean says.

“And that’s… fun?” Cas sounds like Dean trying to speak French.

“Calm down, Spock,” Dean says. “It’s not like I can go out and play tennis.”

“Did you do that before your accident?”

They’re nearly halfway down the road now. The home is only a five minute walk away from a local town, small but with enough people to make being seen less of a risk and more of a certainty. Here, though, there are no cars on the road, nobody to hear the squeak of the chair’s wheels or the sound of Cas’ feet. Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the pavement in front of him, his thoughts focused on the conversation.

“Running around a court after a ball? I'm not a labrador, Cas. The only exercise I really did was for my job.”

“For the FBI?”

“It was more paperwork than punching, to be honest,” Dean admits. “That is, until I started work with my dad.”

Dean’s never really told Cas about his job in any level of detail, but he figures it’s as good a distraction as any. Cas doesn't seem to mind listening.

“I didn’t know your father was an FBI agent,” he says.

“Pretty much his whole life. After mom died, though, he really threw himself into things. He always said that if they’d just have caught the guy who started the fire earlier- well, you know,” he says. Cas knows Dean's an orphan; there’s no need to dwell on it. “He was the best damn agent there.”

“So you followed in his foosteps?”

“Hell, yeah,” Dean says. “Ever since me and Sam were kids, he made sure we knew what he was doing. He’d bring us on stakeouts, or tell us stuff about suspects, or take us out of school for a few weeks if he was working on some big case far away from home. Not exactly conventional, I know, but he liked taking things into his own hands.”

“I can’t imagine the FBI looked fondly on that.”

“Shit, no. Luckily for us, they never found out half of it. He was good at covering his tracks, making it look like we’d done everything by the book- I don’t even know how he arranged things so that we ended up working together. He wanted to work with Sammy, see, but Sam preferred the more orthodox kind of law. After Sam broke the news that he wouldn’t be going into the family business, Dad came and found me and we partnered up. I am telling you, we got into some crazy shit.”

“Go on,” Cas says when Dean doesn’t elaborate. Talking about things he knows he can't experience again has a way of driving ice-cold spikes through Dean’s core, and when he thinks of the stories he once told at parties, they sound more like lines from a euology.

“The crash wasn’t an accident,” he says, because at least that has carried nothing but pain; there are no traces of better days to taunt him, no flowers turned to rot. The sadness is pure. “We were tracking a suspect we shouldn’t have been tracking, a big-time bad guy. Dad was all set to go on this big stakeout alone- “ _leave it to me, Dean-o. I can handle it_ ”. And you know, I wasn’t okay with that as it was, but then he didn’t come back. He didn’t answer his calls, and I must’ve called like, twenty times. A _day._

“So I went and found Sammy,” Dean says. They’ve reached the end of the road, and they aim for the low dip in the curb where Dean can cross. The road is plain, dark tarmac, and Dean studies it like it’s got the secret of life scrawled across it. There are people here, a couple walking hand-in-hand and a few kids on bikes. “The FBI didn’t know what we were doing, and there was no one else I could ask. So I got Sam, and we went after dad, and we fucked things up. The guy realised what was going on, spooked, got away. Dad was furious- wanted to know who the hell I thought I was, why I’d suggested something so dumb, why I’d put Sam in danger. We were still arguing in the car on the way back. I never even saw the guy coming. He was driving a goddamn _truck,_ and I never even saw him coming.”

“The suspect your father was tracking?”

“The one I let get away, yeah,” Dean says tightly. The kids are looking at him.

“What happened to him?”

“Died in the crash. Can’t say I cared too much about that.”

One of the kids points at Dean- mutters something to his friend, who bursts out laughing. Dean’s hands turn white on the wheels of his chair, and he finds he cannot bring himself to push them down, to keep on moving. Cas realises almost instantly, and instead of walking past Dean, he waits by his side.

“Take all the time you need,” he says, while Dean tries to get the lumps of meat on his wrists to move, to do something. Despite the pain in his hands, they’ve been working so far today, so why aren’t they working _now_? The kid’s gotta be under ten- eight, maybe nine- and kids do stupid things, say dumb, mean things, it doesn’t _mean_ anything-

“I can’t,” he says, and it’s a breathless, broken thing. Everything is too much, the world too large as it stretches around him, nowhere to hide and fuck knows he can’t run, not anymore. He’s pinpointed, exposed, and his breathing’s getting quicker and quicker until it catches in his throat, sharp enough to kick out a cough, and then another and another and he can’t stop and he can’t breathe and-

Suddenly, there are eyes inches from his, wide and blue and fixed on his face. Then comes the warm weight of a hand on the back of his neck, another on his back, and Cas pulls. He pulls Dean forwards until his head hits Cas’ shoulder, his forehead pressed into the material of Cas’ shirt but his lower jaw free.

“Breathe out,” Cas says, his breath against Dean’s hair.

“What the fuck are you-” Dean tries to get out, but it just gives way to more coughing.

“Leaning forward and exhaling is the best way to handle this- as I’m sure you know.”

“People are gonna-” More coughing.

“I don’t care what people think, or what they say. I care about _you,_ you ridiculous, infuriating man. Now please breathe out before you choke and I have to explain to Pamela why I let you die.”

Dean breathes out heavily, coughs spiking in his throat and cutting him off. He tries it again and again, coughing and coughing, until a breath of air manages to sneaks out without interruption. Mucus bubbles into his mouth, a slimy, disgusting mess that he forces himself to swallow. The slow, controlled breathing helps to calm the desperate beating of his heart, bring his body back to something like normality, and by the time Dean realises Cas is gently rubbing his thumb against the back of Dean's neck, he is ashamed enough to cringe away from it.

Cas releases him instantly, moving away but staying crouched down. “Are you alright?”

Shame is coagulating in Dean’s veins, the self-hate as familiar and heavy as a worn woollen blanket. “Just get me home," he says tiredly.

Cas nods and then straightens up. “We can go back.”

They turn around and start back the way they came. The time for talking is seriously over, but Cas doesn’t seem to get that. “What else did you like to do before the accident?”

It’s like being hit full-force in the chest. “You seriously want to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Talk about pre-chair stuff like _that_ didn’t just happen?” Dean doesn’t even know what that _was._ Coughing fit? Panic attack? Either way, the idea of lying down and not getting up again suddenly seems very, very appealing. He’s craving dark rooms, still and noiseless air, shutters that hide burned and broken creatures from the world outside.

“I want to know what you used to like to do. And as for _that_ -”

“Don’t,” Dean says, sharp. “I don’t want to hear it, okay? I don’t want to hear about how I was already tense from what we were talking about, or how this is my first time out in forever so it’s only natural I freaked, or how it’s not my fault I suck at coughing. I don’t want to hear the excuses. Don’t tell me it’s okay, Cas, because it is _not_.”

There’s no reply. When Dean glances over at Cas, he looks like he’s absorbing the information.

“Alright,” Cas says after a few seconds. “No. It wasn’t okay. Yes, it was understandable, but that doesn’t mean you can’t handle it better next time.”

Dean barks out a bitter, incredulous laugh, but Cas stays sincere. “And if you’re wrong?” Dean says.

“What do you mean?”

“What if you’re wrong _,_ Cas? Maybe I really am too damn pathetic to even go down a street- what then? What if I _can’t_ do better?”

“You can,” Cas says calmly, “and you will.”

It’s with a sudden, split-second of clarity that Dean sees his choices laid out in front of him, a kind of crossroads with he and Castiel standing in the middle.

Dean could return to the home and shut himself in his room. He could refuse to see Cas or Sam, cancel his appointments with Benny and Tessa, let the world go on with its business somewhere far away from him and wait as the feeling of sunlight on skin fossilises to memory. When everybody knows you’re angry and bitter and that you have no interest in making things better for yourself, they leave you to it- and if you never try, there’s no way you can disappoint. It is easy to cloak yourself in your failure and let the sadness and the suffering become all you are; it is tempting to wear your flaws like a label, because that way you aren’t surprised when they decide to come together and put on a show. It’s certainly easier than trying to overcome them, because if you want to learn to swim, you first have to accept that you cannot.

Then again, no one ever got off an island by staring at the water and hoping it’d move out of their way.

It’s the five-dollar basket-bullshit all over again, turning things that everyone else does unthinkingly into challenges that might as well come with a sticker chart. Another person might find this easy, but Dean is _not_ another person. If he says yes to this, if he agrees to try to talk and learn to smile, then he is choosing his path. It’s daring to believe that he’s worth something, reaching for a better life because he might just deserve it.

It’d be easier to do it for Cas or for Sam, but Dean can’t keep doing things that way, not forever.  He can’t keep doing this because Cas wants him to, or because it eases Sam’s worries, because that kind of thinking is a copout or cover-up just waiting to happen. At some point, Dean has to pick the path _he_ wants to go down- and whilst he can have anyone he wants cheering him on to his destination, he can’t let them push him there.

_Think of how things were before._

Once upon a time, in the age marked Before, Dean’s supervisor had told him- bonding over beers in a shitty bar that always smelt of piss, no matter how far from the toilets you were sitting- that their department was envied for having one of the best agents in the whole damn United States. Dean had started to enthuse about his dad, but the man had cut him off.

“I don’t mean John Winchester,” he had said. “I mean you.”

Dean had wanted to be good at his job, and so he had done it. He had been good at what he did, goddamit- and even if he can’t do it anymore, nothing can take those achievements away from him. He saw what he wanted, he worked for it, and he got it, because that was who he was and what he did. Dean Winchester never said ‘no’ because something was hard; Dean Winchester leant back, grinned and said ‘I like a challenge’.

They’re nearly at the doors now. Dean can see Pamela through the glass, can hear another car coming up behind him, but he ignores both of those things. He ignores everything but that one phrase that he can’t seem to shake, the one that always seems to rattle through his head when he’s alone and he’s itching for something _more._

“Dean?” Cas says.

_Think of how things were before._

“Come back tomorrow,” Dean says, “and we’ll try again.”


	4. Chapter Four

Cas starts coming by every day- mostly, just for an hour or so after work, but on his days off he arrives in the late morning and doesn’t go home until the carers start politely reminding him of the time. He’s getting good at talking the kitchen staff into making him food, though he still prefers to bring his own. Cas isn’t much of a cook, but he’s not comfortable with taking the home’s food for free, and Missouri who runs the kitchen refuses to let him pay.

Dean eats dinner with the other residents every other night. When his hands are bad, he still eats; when his hands are _really_ bad, he drinks a shitty nutrient drink instead. He doesn’t skip meals anymore, and he’s out of bed by ten most days. At times, it’s difficult or aggravating, but he’s gotta admit that some parts of it are nice. Spending time with Jo usually puts him in a good mood, and he’s definitely got more energy than he used to have: the problem is that it’s got nowhere to _go._

He tells Sam as much late one night. They talk a few times a week, with who makes the call being pretty equally split.

“I’m bored,” he complains. Being unhappy is a full time job; trying to find something other than self-hate to fill his time with isn’t going too well so far. “My TV is kind of terrible, and whenever I go into the lounge, Ava’s always watching some friggin' cake show. Do you know I know what a Bundt pan is? Who the hell needs to know that?”

“What the hell is a Bundt pan?”

“Thank you.”

Dean quickly forgets about the conversation, so it's a surprise when Sam turns up the following morning, carrier bag grasped in one hand.

“You’re bored?” Sam greets him. “Read something.”

He upends the carrier bag on Dean’s bed and at least ten books spill out, a few bouncing off the mattress.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Dean grumbles, reaching down to pick one up. “Seriously, Sam, Vonnegut? I haven’t read this since I was nineteen.”

“So?” Sam shrugs. “Means you’ve had time to forget it.”

“What about this one?” Dean says, examining an unfamiliar dust jacket.

“That’s my favourite book,” Sam says as he picks up another of the fallen books.

“But there’s not a pony on the cover.”

Sam thumps Dean across the arm with the book he was holding, seemingly without thinking. When he realises what he just did, he freezes in place, his eyes growing wide in horror. Tension starts to fill the air, only to be shattered when Dean rolls his eyes.

“I can take a hit, okay?” he says. “You’re not that strong yet, Boy Wonder.”

“Jerk,” Sam mutters, but he gives a wobbly smile, and he sticks around for another hour and a half. 

A few days later, Dean rings to grudgingly thank him for the books.

“Which one are you reading?” Sam asks.

“Uh, I started my third one today.”

“What the hell, Dean?” Sam laughs.

“What can I say?” Dean grins down the phone. “I got the brains _and_ the beauty.”

“And so modest,” Sam marvels. “I can bring by some more next week, if you want?”

“Sure,” Dean says. “You want any money for them?”

“Nah, they’re all mine or Jess’ or… yours. They’re not costing me anything.”

“Awesome,” Dean says. Just like that, Sam’s visits are somehow back to being weekly. It doesn’t feel like losing.

* * *

August keeps on passing. PT is frustratingly slow, but Benny gets a weird satisfaction out of seeing Dean get mad.

“You gotta work _with_ the anger, Dean,” he says. “You gotta put it into what you’re doing.”

“Would breaking your nose be working with the anger?” Dean says tightly. Benny’s got him working with this godawful ‘hand exerciser’, a device that comes directly from somewhere around the third layer of Hell. Trying to persuade one finger at a time to press down a button that doesn’t actually _want_ to be pressed down isn’t Dean’s idea of fun.

“Tell you what,” Benny says. “If we get to the stage where you reckon you can make a decent enough fist, I’ll let you punch me as a reward.”

“You sure know how to motivate a guy,” Dean says, but his heart’s not in it. It’s too early to notice any real change, but every time he does this stupid exercise, he thinks it feels a little easier. For the first time, getting pissed off at his body is actually having a productive outcome, and that’s not something he’s taking lightly. Besides, Benny’s too damn _nice_ to stay mad at.

Dean’s still unwilling to talk about much with Tessa- anything she does coax out of him is like easing thick splinters out of a bloodied wound- but he thinks that's helping too. He still talks to Cas about things, but it feels easier now, almost _cleaner._ Before, it felt like he was thin skin, stretched over a writhing tempest of hate and hurt and a thousand fuck-ups; any crack in his shell risked causing an explosion, everything forcing itself out of the rare gap at once. Knowing that he can talk to Tessa if he needs to is like someone pushing in a syringe and safely letting out the pressure.

He and Cas go into town a couple times a week, though they never stay in one place and they don’t really talk to people. Dean knows that Cas wants to go into coffee shops or diners, but Dean just doesn’t feel comfortable sitting around other people for that long. Cas, being Cas, has a solution.

“We should try somewhere safer first,” he suggests. “Somewhere quieter. Sam’s house, maybe?”

“Yeah, no.” ‘ _Hey, Jess, I’m the brother-in-law you found sitting in a puddle of his own plasma, and this is my best-friend-slash-personal-volunteer. I'm here to insult your fiancé for an hour and leave tyre marks on your carpet. Where’s your TV?’_   Dean’s getting better at handling awkward situations, but he's gotta draw the line somewhere.

“What about my house?” Cas suggests.

Dean turns to look at him. “Seriously?”

“Why not?” Cas shrugs. “I don’t live far from here. Transport wouldn’t be that difficult to arrange.”

“Gotta admit, I’m curious about the millionaire’s mansion you spend no time in.” One of the rare gifts that Cas accepted from his family, the much-avoided house is far from Cas’ favourite place to be.

“It’s not a mansion,” Cas says. “It’s… large, yes, but it’s nothing special.”

“Whatever,” Dean shrugs. “Sure. I’ll go, I guess.”

Cas squints at him. “I’m not entirely convinced you're capable of expressing enthusiasm.”

“Yay,” Dean says, deadpan, and Cas smirks.

“I just need to clear it with the staff,” he says. “I can go and ask now. Who’s the lead carer today?”

“Uh, Lilith.” Dean starts wondering if it’s too late to change his mind. 

* * *

“I’m not getting in that,” Dean says in horror.

“Is everything okay?” Cas asks, concerned.

“ _No_ ,” Dean stresses. “Your car is crappy.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Get in the car, Dean.”

“Dude, it’s awful,” Dean complains as he aligns his chair with the seat. “Like, really, really awful.”

“Yes, I did get that the first time.”

“I- we are not finished,” Dean warns, moving himself a little closer and putting the brakes on. He’s only done this once or twice before, and not for a very long time now. It’s gonna take some focus.

Dean shuffles forwards until he’s resting on the edge of the seat and grabs his left leg, pushing it in. He does the same with the right so that both of his feet are resting in the passenger side of the car. With one hand on his chair and the other on the seat of the car, he swings his body across. It’s pretty clumsy, but it does the job.

“Not bad,” Ruby calls from behind him.

“Bite me,” he calls back, reaching over to push the backrest of his wheelchair down. Shit, he hasn’t had to fold this thing away in well over a year. “Hey, Ruby, how do the wheels come off this thing?”

“It’s your chair, genius. Not mine.” She starts walking over all the same.

“I don’t need your help,” he objects and she stops, sighing heavily.

“Then why did you _ask?”_

“Gotta make you feel like you’re useful for something.”

“You’re so good to me.”

“Try pushing in and twisting,” Cas suggests. “That’s how Anna’s chair worked.”

Cas is standing by the front of the car, and he’s been sensible enough not to try and swoop in. If there’s one thing Dean hates- more than wheelchairs in general and _fucking cake shows,_ that is- it’s people trying to fuck with his chair. Dean presses and twists, and the wheel comes loose in his hands. He drops it on his lap and gives a loose attempt at a thumbs up before pulling off the other one too. “What am I doing with these?”

“Back seat?” Cas suggests. “The seats fold forwards.”

Folding seats are convenient for transporting wheelchairs, something that Cas almost certainly knows. Dean would guess Anna’s accident and Cas buying this car didn’t happen that far apart. It’s a useful design, but that doesn’t mean Dean’s going to stop mocking it.

“Why do you have a _green_ car?” Dean says as soon as Cas closes the driver’s side door.

“What’s wrong with green?”

“Nothing, if you’re drunk and in Ireland. You don’t paint your _car_ green.”

“I didn’t paint it. It was green when I bought it.”

“Then you don’t buy green cars.”

“It gets me-”

“ _Don’t_ say it gets you from A to B,” Dean half-begs. “Do you know how much I hate it when people say that? That’s like saying ‘I wear a sack instead of clothes because it still keeps me warm’. If you give a crap about what you wear or eat, or where you live, you gotta give some love to your car too.”

“Are you done yet?”

“No. The suspension is terrible, the steering is terrible-”

“You aren’t even _driving._ ”

“You’re breaking my heart here, Cas.”

“It’s a car,” Cas says helplessly. “It works most of the time- what more could you want?” When Dean doesn’t answer, he glances over at him. “Dean?”

“Sorry, I’m having some trouble processing just how many things were wrong with that last sentence.”

Dean is pretty sure that whatever Cas mutters under his breath is Spanish, and he’s almost _certain_ that it’s offensive.

“You like driving this thing?” Dean demands, wincing as Cas turns the wheel slightly and the car hurls itself around the corner like an over-excited dog.

“Not particularly,” Cas admits eventually. “I’ve been meaning to buy a new one, but I don’t know much about cars.”

“That, my friend, is where you’re in luck,” Dean says. “Give me a price bracket and a magazine and I can make all of your dreams come true. Well, the car ones, anyway. No ‘after hours’ stuff.”

“You like cars?”

“How can you _not_ like cars?” Dean says. “I used to drive the most gorgeous Impala ‘67- seriously, Cas, one look at her and you’d change your mind. You know Helen of Troy? This car was like, the Chevy of Troy.”

“Sam would be proud,” Cas muses.

Cas’ house is only about ten minutes away, and when they turn into the driveway, it’s all Dean can do to keep his jaw from dropping.

“ _Dude,_ " he says.

“It’s just a house.”

“Right, and a whale is just a fish.”

“Whales are mammals.”

“Thank you, Animal Planet.”

“The house isn’t _that_ big,” Cas argues as he parks.

“How many bedrooms?”

“Three.”

“It’s big.”

“Three isn’t a lot.”

“It’s a lot for one guy.”

“That,” Cas says, pocketing his car keys and opening his door, “is a very different matter.”

Dean reassembles his chair, grumbling as he tries to push on the wheels and finally gets it right on his third attempt. His chair’s not exactly a great chair- it’s kind of uncomfortable, so he tries to avoid sitting in it for too long, and the left wheel occasionally decides to freeze up and ruin his smooth ride. Dean doesn’t even remember buying it. He thinks Sam or Jess or a doctor must have handled things, and he’s never mentioned any of the issues to them; admitting that his chair sucks means talking about the fact that he has to use a chair.

Cas’ driveway is fairly long, and luckily for everybody involved, there aren’t any steps to his front door. He opens it and stands aside, gesturing for Dean to go in. Normally, Dean would worry that the hallway might not be big enough for him to fit through, but he really doubts that’s going to be a problem here. Cas shows him to the lounge, and Dean takes care not to scratch the door frame on his way in.

“Do you want a drink?” Cas asks. Dean takes one look at the pale carpet and decides, quite vehemently, that he does not. Cas goes to make himself coffee, and Dean makes a mental note not to touch anything- actually, make that not to _breathe_ near anything. Suddenly, he can’t envisage how being in public could make him feel _more_ out of place than he does now; just being in the place feels like staining it.

That being said, it’s not like there’s much to ruin. It’s nice, sure- expensive, that’s obvious- but it’s like a set-up from Bed, Bath and Beyond. There aren’t any paintings on the walls or photographs in frames, and everything has this white, clinical look to it. There’s a DVD rack, but it’s half-empty, and what is there is covered with a thin layer of dust.

“Like I said,” Cas says, reappearing with a steaming mug, “I don’t spend much time at home.”

“Why not?” Dean asks. “You got a nice place here.”

Cas doesn’t look convinced. He takes a seat in the chair by Dean. “It’s adequate.”

“You got a lot of space to yourself, huh?”

“Too much,” Cas says, so quietly that Dean nearly misses it. Anna’s name lingers in the air, unspoken but impossible to miss. Dean’s starting to wish he’d asked for a drink so that he had an excuse not to say anything.

“What are you doing?” Cas asks curiously.

“Huh?” Dean says, drawing a blank. Cas nods towards his hand, and Dean realises what he means.

“Nothing,” he says, placing it palm-down on his armrest. “It’s some dumb PT thing. Benny likes me to do it whenever I get a spare moment.”

It’s a simple enough exercise- bringing down his fingers to his thumb, one-by-one- but on bad days, cramp and spasms and shaking make it a real pain in the ass. Today’s a pretty good day, though, and Dean’s been practicing so much that he kind of does it on automatic.

“It looked like sign language,” Cas comments.

“I forgot you learn that,” Dean admits. “What, were languages with actual words not good enough for you?”

“I like different modes of communication, verbal or otherwise," Cas says placidly.

“Is it hard?”

“Not really,” Cas says. “I’d be happy to teach you.”

“Eh,” Dean says, starting up the PT tapping again. “Maybe.”

“How is PT?” Cas asks. Dean goes to reply with ‘crappy’, because stopping himself.

“It’s not so bad,” he admits grudgingly.

“I suppose that’s high praise, coming from you.”

“What, you mean I’m _not_ a rainbow of joy and delight?” Dean says, mock-offended.

Cas looks incredibly conflicted. “… I don’t know how to answer that,” he says eventually. Dean bursts out laughing.

“You’re something, you know that, right?” he says, shaking his head. “You and your giant house and your terrible taste in cars.”

“I wondered how long it would be before you got back to mocking my car,” Cas muses. “I’ll be right back.”

Cas returns less than a minute later, his laptop in his arms. He sets it down on a nearby table and plugs in a mouse - whether for Dean’s benefit or out of personal preference, Dean doesn’t know, and he’s sure as hell not going to ask.

“I don’t have any car magazines,” Cas says, and the meaning takes a moment to click in Dean’s head. He wheels himself over, already sifting through years and makes in his head.

“First things first,” he says, drawing himself up in front of the laptop. The table’s a little high, but not so bad he can’t manage. “Let’s talk price.”

Cas pulls a face. “I don’t have much money.”

Dean looks at him incredulously. When Cas tilts his head in confusion, Dean looks around the room, slowly and meaningfully.

“My _father_ has a lot of money,” Cas reminds him, sitting down by his side. “My father bought the house. I’m not prepared to ask him for a car.”

“So we’re going on tax accountant wage,” Dean says. “I can work with that. Plus, you should get some extra from selling that insult to engineering in the driveway.”

“Since when were we selling my car?”

“Since when were we _not_?” Dean says, bringing up a search engine page. It’s been a long time since he used a computer, and moving the mouse isn’t the easiest thing, but it’s doable. Typing, though, is… interesting. He has to point his finger and drop his whole hand down to press a key, and he feels like a six year old sucking at piano. Cas isn’t paying attention, though.

“You are,” Cas says, with an affectionate kind of irritation, “unusually invested in my motoring preference.”

“You bet it,” Dean says, managing to hit ‘search’. “Automatic or manual?”

“Manual.”

“Good man,” Dean says approvingly, clicking a link. “Better control. Do you want to talk horsepower?”

“Not even slightly.”

“How much do you actually know about this stuff?” Dean asks, turning to face him. Cas hesitates.

“… cars have wheels,” he says. “Four of them. Usually.”

“Someone tell Top Gear we’ve found a new presenter,” Dean mutters, and Cas frowns. “It’s a car show,” Dean supplies. “One you should watch.”

“Right. Okay. No, I really don’t know anything about this,” Cas says, almost pitifully. As sad as he looks, Dean can’t stop himself from grinning; they’re on _his_ turf now.

“In that case,” Dean says, “I know how we’re spending the next few hours.”

* * *

By the third visit, Cas’ car has apparently wised on to what Dean is doing, and it makes its disapproval very clear.

“It definitely has gas,” Cas says for the fourth time. Dean’s getting the impression that that’s the only thing he knows how to check.

“Dude, you kidnapped me,” Dean says.

“I didn’t _mean to,_ ” Cas says, stressed. It’s 6:28PM, and they promised Lilith that Dean would be back for half six exactly. Nobody likes to piss off Lilith.

“Woah, Cas, chill out,” Dean says. “Turn the key again.”

“It’s not going to-”

“ _Cas._ ” With a sigh that’s _just_ this side of bitchy, Cas turns the key. Dean listens.

“It’s not doing anything,” Cas says tetchily.

“Exactly.”

Cas sighs heavily, despairingly. “You did not cover this.”

“I was getting around to it,” Dean says defensively.

It’s been about a week since Dean’s first visit, and in that time he’s made Sam bring him a whole pile of car magazines. Dean uses Cas’ laptop whenever he comes around, but teaching Cas about cars means that Dean spends more time talking than researching. Cas tries to listen and understand, but it’s clear that this doesn’t come naturally to him. Dean can’t really get mad- not when Cas has gone through the ASL alphabet four times now and Dean _still_ can’t remember anything past ‘H’.

“When you turn the key, the car should make a noise,” Dean says. “Right now, it’s like a mouse in a monastery. That means the problem might be with the battery cables.”

“The cables?” Cas repeats uncertainly.

“The cables,” Dean nods. “I can tell you how to check them.”

Cas looks like Dean’s just suggested he performs open heart surgery with a spork. “That sounds like a terrible idea.”

“Have some faith,” Dean says, reaching over to clap Cas on the shoulder.

“I have faith in _you,_ ” Cas says- and whilst it’s said as a grumbled protest, it still makes Dean’s stomach twist into his chest cavity, like a preteen girl who catches a cute guy staring at her shoes. “It’s my own abilities I doubt.”

“What?” Dean says incredulously. “Come on, Cas, you’re like the smartest guy I know.”

“Conjugating Spanish verbs has not prepared me for changing battery cables,” Cas hisses.

“You’re not changing them,” Dean says, in his best ‘reassuring sports coach’ voice. “You might need to get them replaced, sure, but right now you’re just going to check them. It’s easy. Seriously, you can do it,” he adds when Cas looks at him desperately.

Five minutes later, he’s out of the car and back in his wheelchair, watching Cas regard the engine like it might just bite him.

“Okay, so you’re just gonna turn that nut, and it’s gonna come right away,” Dean says encouragingly.

“Which way do I turn it?”

“Left,” Dean says instantly; he’d memorised _lefty-loosey, righty-tighty_ the way most kids learn nursery rhymes. Cas treats the whole thing like a vicious game of Operation where the buzzer delivers a fatal shock to the player, but he gets it done.

“Okay, so these are corroded as fuck,” Dean says. “Seriously, man, I’d yell at you so damn much if we weren't selling this thing soon.”

“I’m still not sure-”

“Anyway,” Dean continues, "for now, we just gotta clean up the terminals a little. Have you got a wire brush? Or a terminal cleaner?”

The look Cas gives Dean suggests that asking for the Holy Grail would have been more realistic. Dean lowers his expectations.

“Have you got a toothbrush?”

“Yes,” Cas says confidently.

“Baking soda?”

“What?”

“Humour me.”

“Yes, I think so.”                                                                                                    

“Awesome,” Dean says happily. When he looks over at Cas, he’s standing so stiffly that he might as well be made out of cardboard. Dean has to laugh.

“Relax, would you?” he says. “You’re doing great so far.”

“What are you going to make me do?” Cas asks warily.

“ _We,_ ” Dean stresses, “are going to fix your car.”

And as much as Dean hates that goddamn thing, when it rolls out of the driveway fifteen minutes later, he can’t help but feel a grudging kind of affection. The way that Cas keeps looking over at Dean, gazing at him like he’s just turned water into wine- well, that helps too.

* * *

In the first week of September, Cas grudgingly agrees to replace the battery cables in his car. Dean is delighted; Cas, less so.

“You did fine last time,” Dean reminds him as Cas squints down at the engine like a cowboy re-encountering an old enemy.

“That doesn’t guarantee a repeat performance,” Cas mutters. He stops for a second and tilts his head, staring at something under the hood.

“You okay?”

“Is that where the spark plug is?” he asks, pointing. Dean scoots a little closer to check.

“Hell yeah, it is!” he crows. The haggard look of dread that Cas always wears when around cars disappears from his face, temporarily replaced by one of incredulous triumph.

“And what does the spark plug do?” Dean presses.

“… it makes a spark?”

“I shoulda seen that one coming,” Dean acknowledges. It doesn’t do anything to dissipate the good feeling. “Anyway, back to the battery cables.” He’s already checked that Cas bought the right parts and worked out a solution for every potential ‘Cas fucks something up’ scenario. Not that he’s letting that on, obviously; Dean knows that nothing sucks more than having someone staring over your shoulder, ready to bark out criticism should you screw up. He learned most of what he knows about cars from his father.

“And you’re sure this is a-” Cas begins, turning to face Dean.

“ _Cas,_ ” Dean says. “Trust me.”

Cas sighs like Dean’s just bound him by oath and turns back to the engine. Dean nods proudly.

“Damn straight,” he says. “So step one is disconnecting the battery. See that nut? You need to loosen it again, so- yeah, like that. Okay, that’s good. See? You’re doing good.”

It takes longer than it used to take Dean, but Cas follows the instructions to the letter. Soon, Dean is holding two nasty, corroded-to-shit cables, and the car’s busily becoming acquainted with its shiny new friends. He doesn’t think Cas moves a single muscle in his face until they’re done, when he slumps and sighs obvious relief.

“You alright there, Stark?” Dean asks, and Cas straightens and nods.

“You’re a very good teacher,” he admits grudgingly.

“You’re a good student,” Dean shrugs, but he can’t pretend it doesn't feel good. If nothing else, his hands have been hurting like a bitch all day long, and he appreciates the distraction.

“I need to change my shirt,” Cas says, frowning at the oil stains on his t-shirt, and Dean’s mind goes to a filthy, beautiful place.

“Sure thing,” Dean says. “I can use your laptop, right?”

“Of course,” Cas says. “I’ll be back soon.”

They’re in the garage, which is blessedly set on the same level as the rest of Cas’ ground floor. It means that Dean can wheel himself in and out without a problem- though he lingers for a few minutes after Cas leaves, peering at the engine and double-checking that the cables are right. They’re near-perfect, and pride blooms fresh in his chest. Sure, he feels kind of shitty for not being able to do it himself, but he’s too pleased with Cas’ progress to be all that upset. It feels less like making Cas do it for him, and more like teaching Cas how. It's not all that obvious who's delivering the favour here.

Dean pats the car good-naturedly. “I am gonna sell you _so_ hard,” he tells it, before he turns to go.

He’s not even sure how it happens. He knows that the wheel of his chair catches the base of the small, flimsy table Cas rested the toolbox on. He sees the box rock forwards and hurl its contents over him in what feels slow motion, and now, _even now,_ his instinct is still to try and jerk his leg away rather than move the chair.

“Fuck!” Dean yelps as a screwdriver glances off his wrist. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants under his breath, leaning over the side of his chair and starting to pick things up. Nearly all of the tools completely missed him and his chair, or bounced off his wheels, so it's no big deal. It’s still a stupid fucking thing to do, though, and he’s embarrassed to hear Cas’ hurried footsteps behind him.

“It’s fine,” Dean calls before Cas can say anything. “I hit the table like the dumb asshole I am.”

“Are you alright?” Cas asks, concerned.

“Yeah,” Dean says again, dropping a spanner into the box. “I don’t think anything’s broken here. I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s not a problem,” Cas says. “That table is-”

“Cas?” Dean questions when Cas breaks off. He goes to crack a joke- some half-formed quip about not being _that_ pretty, one of those ‘think whilst speaking’ deals- when Cas suddenly  _lunges_ for him, dropping down and moving his hand to Dean’s right calf.

“Dude, what the hell?” Dean barks, instinctively raising his hands to push Cas away.

“Your leg is bleeding,” Cas says, his voice level but urgent.

“What do you mean, it’s bleeding?”

“Something must have cut it. Do you have a hankerchief?”

“Who the hell carries a hankerchief?” he says, annoyed. “Would you just-“

Cas moves his hands and they come away red. Dean’s eyes widen as he takes in what he’d somehow managed to miss until now- the slash in the material, the rapidly growing stain, the regular drip of blood onto the floor. Cas moves away and returns with a clean cloth, pushing it into Dean’s hand. Dean bends down and presses it to the wound, using both hands to hold it in place.

“You'll need to wash the cut,” Cas says. “I have a detachable showerhead you can use.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

“No, but septicaemia may be, and I honestly cannot remember the last time I cleaned those tools. Wash the cut, Dean.” In all fairness, Dean’s guessing that ‘I borrowed your resident and brought him back with blood poisoning’ won’t float well with the care home staff. He takes one hand off the makeshift compress, but judging by the blood trickling out from under the cloth, he can't let go if he wants to keep things clean.

“I can’t steer one-handed,” Dean says.

“Then let me push your chair.”

“And I thought things couldn’t get worse,” Dean mutters, but he reaches across and manages to awkwardly disengage his brakes. “What’re you waiting for?” he says, twisting up to look at Cas.

Cas takes the handles of his chair and begins to push. He’s good at handling the chair, and in return, Dean tries his hardest not to bleed the carpet. He’s made fun of Cas for having his bathroom downstairs before (“ _dude, you have an upside-down house”_ ), but now he’s grateful for it- in a far-off, dulled manner.  He’s already working on shutting himself off, detaching from the situation. He can feel the shame and disappointment and anger stagnating in the gap he leaves behind, eagerly waiting for his return. There was something to be said, Dean thinks, for only ever having bad days; when you’re caught in a thunderstorm, what’s a little extra rain?

Cas parks the chair so that the wheels are pushed right up against the  shower. “Is it still bleeding?”

Dean pulls the rag away to check. “Less than before.”

Cas slips in around him and pulls the showerhead off. “Can you roll the material up?” he asks. “Dean?”

“Miles away,” Dean mumbles. "Sorry." He bends and pulls off his shoe and sock, dropping them behind him. He peels the sodden material back from the wound, ignoring the way Cas flinches at how roughly he pulls. Dean moves to the edge of his seat and uses his hands to manouvere his leg as far out as it will go.

Cas hands him the showerhead. He twists a knob and water streams out, hitting the join between shower floor and wall. “I’m going to hold your leg straight,” Cas says. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get your chair wet.”

Dean actually couldn’t give less of a shit about the condition of his chair, but he doesn’t want to talk anymore, so he lets Cas do what he wants. Cas slips a careful hand around Dean’s ankle, slides the other underneath his knee, and gently straightens his leg out. Dean leans forward and aims the water at the cut, not bothering to test temperature or strength. The wound starts bleeding again, the water swirling down the plughole tinted a dirty pink.

For the first time, Dean wonders what Sam and Jess used to get his blood off the bathroom floor. The memory is old and crinkled, a photograph pushed to the back of a drawer. Dean had forgotten how quick it had all been. He’d cut his left arm first and as he tried to cut the right, blood was already spilling over his legs, running down his chair, leaving puddles on the tiles. It had hurt, it had hurt _so_ fucking badly but he’d kept on cutting, kept on going until his hands were too slippery and his vision was going and the blade slipped from his sticky fingers.

There had been so much red- a bright, arterial shade, the kind of colour that looks _wrong_ in the real world _,_ that you instinctively know should not be seen outside of your body. It had been everywhere, so much of it, more than he’d ever seen in one place and he’d been a fucking _FBI_ agent, all pumping out faster and faster and right at the last moment, right before Sam kicked the door open and Dean lost consciousness, Dean had been scared.

Dean doesn’t remember what he was thinking when he saw Sam- there’s too much there to isolate one specific feeling, especially when he’s looking at it through the smeared and greasy lens of time and blood loss- but he can’t be sure that, buried somewhere in it all, there wasn’t a whisper of relief.

“That should be enough,” Cas says, jerking Dean back to the present. He turns the shower off and steps around Dean to hand him a towel.

“I have bandages, but make sure you get Dr Singer to look at it when you get back,” Cas says, opening a cabinet and rooting around for supplies.

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Dean.”

“I _know_ ,” Dean snaps. “Just leave it, alright?”

Cas looks at him then, and Dean knows that he’s confirmed what Cas was already suspecting- that it isn’t just the blood that’s getting to Dean here, that this pain goes deeper than physical. Cas turns back around and finishes searching. He hands Dean a self-adhesive bandage and gives him a small, quick smile. For once, Cas doesn’t say anything- and for that, Dean thinks he might just love him.

Once Dean’s got the dressing in place, all he wants is to go back to the home. Cas offers to lend him a clean pair of pants, but the idea of wearing Cas’ clothes triggers feelings that Dean doesn’t feel able to cope with right now. He turns down the offer, and once he and Cas are on the road, Cas starts to speak.

“Did I ever tell you what happened to my first car?”

Dean’s not in the mood for jokes, so he just tilts his head towards Cas, waiting for him to go on.

“I can condense a fairly long and incredibly painful story into one sentence,” Cas says. “Diesel cars do not take gas.”

The meaning takes a half-second to sink in. “You didn’t.”

“Believe me, I soon wished I hadn’t.”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen. It was some time before I was allowed another car.”

“We’d better make sure your new car runs on gas,” Dean says.

“I’m not selling this car.”

“Definitely gas.”

Cas glares at him, and for a moment, Dean feels okay. It doesn’t last, pain shooting through his hands and sadness settling into his stomach like an old friend coming home. They lapse into silence before Dean speaks again.

“I don’t care that I made a mistake,” he says. Dean’s not stupid, thanks- he knows a conveniently applicable story when he hears one. “I mean, I do- if any of that stuff’s damaged, Cas, you gotta tell me and I swear, I’ll pay-”

“Was it because you couldn’t feel it?” Cas asks, and it sounds more like he’s enquiring about Dean’s favourite movie than potential emotional trauma. Cas, as immensely and ridiculously caring as he is, does not have a setting for ‘tact’. Dean’s never been sure if that’s a flaw or a blessing. 

“I thought so,” Cas says when Dean doesn't reply. “You do recognise that it’s not your fault.”

“It’s not that. It’s more…” Dean exhales, turns his head towards the window.

“Some days I think I’m gonna forget what it was like to be real,” he tells the glass. “To be a part of things. The world’s out there, and I’m in here, and sometimes I can’t remember what it was like when _here_ and _there_ were the same place.” Dean breaks off, rubs his eyes. “I don’t know if that makes sense, but-”

“It does,” Cas says. “I think.”

Dean nods, not expecting any more- so when Cas takes a breath as if to speak, Dean turns to look.

“For what it’s worth,” Cas says, “if you and ‘the world’ were considered separate places, then I would rather have you.”

He looks away from the road then, catches Dean’s eye and holds the look for so long Dean starts worry they’re going to hit something- but Dean can’t seem to look away either, so he’s not one to talk. He doesn’t have words for his thoughts, much less for his feelings. He resolves the issue, after too much time without speaking, by paying attention to neither.

“Engine sounds better,” he says instead, dropping his eyes to the dashboard and staring like he can see straight through it.  Cas doesn’t even reply, though Dean sees him nod slightly out of the corner of his vision.

There’s a kind of tempest in Dean’s chest, one he’s barely holding back. Want and need and incredulous gratitude are all desperate to find their way into Dean’s mouth and out into the open, but it’s safe to say that the nerves linking Dean’s legs and spine are not the only connections in him that don’t really work.

* * *

Cas tattles on him to Ellen, so there’s no way Dean can sneak back to his room without seeing Bobby. Luckily for Dean, after a quick inspection and an affectionately grumbled “Idjit”, he’s cleared to go. He spends the rest of the evening in his room and whist he doesn’t have nightmares, what little sleep he gets is brief and patchy. He still hauls ass out of bed when morning rolls around, but persuading himself to do so is harder than it’s been in a long time.

Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s seeing Benny tomorrow and Tessa in a couple days, and Cas is supposed to be coming by after work, but that’s it. He tries reading but the words slide straight from memory whenever he closes his eyes, and the third time he rereads page 34, he gives up and closes the book. He puts the TV on, channel flips for twenty minutes, then turns it off again. He ends up staring blankly at the wall, his fingers tapping one-by-one to his thumb without him really noticing. He spent the whole of last night trying not to think, and that didn’t work; he’s spent today trying to think, and that’s not working either. His mind is filled with a heavy fog and time moves slow, like blood oozing from an old, putrefying wound.

Cas rarely bothers knocking anymore, and when he arrives in the early evening, Dean nods rather than saying hello. He’s lying on top of his bed, fan on and legs stretched out under a blanket, and Cas sits down nearby. Dean notices that he’s carrying a bag, but decides against asking.

Cas opens with “How’s your leg?”

“Okay,” Dean shrugs. “Bobby just shoved another dressing on it. He says I gotta keep getting it checked, but other than that…”

“Good,” Cas says. He’s fiddling with the handle of the bag, and Dean raises an eyebrow. Cas isn’t the kind of guy who fiddles with things.

“I wanted to try something,” Cas confesses.

“I don’t wanna go out, Cas,” Dean says tiredly.

“You won’t even have to leave the room.” Dean looks at him warily. “I mean it. You won’t even have to get up.”

“That sounds… odd,” Dean says.

“You’ll think so, yes. You’ll probably say no at first, but-”

“You’re not selling this well.”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Go on.”

“It’s something I used to do with Anna,” Cas says. “Well, it’s based on that.”

Dean just about holds back from saying ‘ _so it’s a cripple thing’_. “What do I have to do?”

“I told you, nothing.”

“Well, I’m real good at doing nothing.”

“Then you should be an expert at this. Where are your headphones?”

Dean squints at him suspiciously. “Wh-”

“ _Dean._ ”

“When did you get so bossy?” Dean grumbles. “Top right drawer. Player’s attached.”

Cas finds them and hands them to Dean. “Put them on.”

Dean can’t find a reason to argue with that, so he does as he’s told. Cas proceeds to close the blinds and flick the overhead light off. Summer is starting the slow decline into autumn, so the room is still dimly lit; Dean’s blinds aren’t _that_ good. Cas walks straight past the chair and sits on the bed by Dean, like personal space is something that only applies to other people. Dean should probably be more uncomfortable with that than he is.

“This is getting weird,” Dean asks. “You’re not gonna hypnotise me, are you?”

Cas actually rolls his eyes. “Do I look like someone who believes in hypnotism?”

“You look like someone who doesn’t _want_ to look like someone who believes in hypnotism.”

“Now you’re stalling.”

“I’m _scared._ Are you gonna electric shock me or something?”

Cas’ lips break into a small smile, the familiar ‘you are an idiot and I find it strangely endearing’ look that Dean’s come to regard a little like water, like oxygen.

“It won’t hurt, and it won’t last for long. If you really want to stop, then I will- but give it a chance, Dean.”

Dean’s tempted to ask if it’s some freaky fetish thing, except that Cas said he did this with Anna, and if _that_ is something Cas is into then Dean really does not want to know. He weighs things up and decides surrender is probably his best option.

“What do I need to do?”

“Lie down,” Cas instructs, “and close your eyes. You can listen to whatever music you want- I used to play Anna classical, but I get the impression you would object to that.”

“Understatement,” Dean says, using the bar on the wall to slide down the bed a little. He picks a quieter song, but he still turns the volume up way too high as he closes his eyes and waits.

Something cold touches his neck, and his eyes snap open.

“The _fuck_ -”

“Trust me,” Cas says softly. It’s been months since Cas first showed, months of and fights and fuck-ups and breakdowns, and yet somehow they’re both still here. Dean figures that a little trust is the least he can give, and he closes his eyes again.

“Thank you,” he hears Cas say over the music. The cold sensation on his neck is dampened a little when something warm joins it- fingers, Dean realises after a second. Warm, strong fingers are pressing to the side of his neck, sliding up and down. Dean smells cream- thankfully, the unscented kind- and realises what the cold stuff is. He knows a lot of the carers and volunteers do massage, but it’s mostly on hands and feet, and neither of those mean much to Dean.

Cas’ fingers trail up to his ear and then down to the collar of his t-shirt, thumb swirling in circles. More cold cream finds the other side of his throat, and the same gentle fingers rub it in. Dean takes a moment to be grateful that Cas closed the door, because this must look really fucking weird- but it actually feels pretty good. Dean's confidence that he’s sussed out Cas’ plan is broken when something new touches his face- still cold, but this sensation is definitely _dry_. He cracks one eye open and sees a small piece of silk in Cas’ hands, white and slightly fraying. Weird, okay, but he’s sat through worse.

The silk trails across Dean’s throat and up to his jaw, the very edges of it brushing against the sides of his face. Dean’s world is dark and ruled by the steady beat of bass in his ears, and with everything else taken away, the brush of material against his forehead is the bright spray of graffiti against a plain-brick building, a splash of ink on a white paper background. He tracks its movement across his face, down his throat, even ghosting briefly across his lips.

The sensation disappears and something new replaces it- rougher, coarser. It begins at his elbow and is dragged slowly up his arm, skipping the patch of shoulder covered by his t-shirt and sweeping in behind his ear. _Carpet,_ he identifies eventually, a small smile coming to his lips. Shit, it’s been a long time since he felt _carpet._

The next is thick and soft- flannel, Dean thinks, or maybe a towel.  It’s replaced soon after by a strip of cotton, a light, fluttering thing that finds its way across his closed eyelids, the feel of it burrowing down to his fingertips and becoming memories of pulling on a t-shirt or tugging at a girl’s sundress. Wool, he realises, feels very different to flannel- it’s more uneven, warmer, more reassuring somehow. Cotton wool is gentle at first, but after a while it gains a harsher edge to it.

Denim scratches against his throat and velvet hugs his face, fleece and fake fur different kinds of soft. The material brushes along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, nose, forehead, eyelids, ears. The slightest brush of touch becomes a firework on a pitch-black December night, every sensation blown into something that cannot be brushed aside or forgotten. The music in his ears is loud, the touches to his face unmistakable, and he feels it, he feels it all; he has never felt _more._

 _I’m real,_ he thinks, the thought unbidden, bizarre. The world is no longer at arm’s length; the world surrounds him, fills him, tendrils finding the gaps between his cells and curling around them, protective:  _there you are. I thought I’d lost you._ Dean does not feel dead; he does not feel forgotten. He feels wanted. He feels found. _I’m real._

The final song on the album is drawing to a close, and Dean doesn’t have another one queued. There is a quiet strumming of guitar, the gentle hum of voices coming together as one, and he feels the warmth of Cas’ thumb slip as he pulls the material away. Something new brushes over Dean’s cheek like breath made material, like a handful of kisses all hitting at once, and Dean doesn’t know how he recognises _feathers_ except that he does.

“That’s the last one,” Cas says. Dean opens his eyes and pushes himself up a little, turning towards Cas. Maybe it’s PT and maybe it’s dumb luck, or maybe God sat up and paid attention for once in Dean’s damn life, but when he reaches for Cas’ wrists, he finds them. Dean curls his fingers around them, holding Cas still. He looks at the feathers dangling from Cas’ fingers and then jerks his head down slightly- _drop them._ Cas does.

They float towards Dean’s body, their descent slow and unhurried, but he pays little attention. Cas’ hands are only inches from his face, and Dean gently pulls at his wrists until Cas’ fingers brush the side of his face. Dean looks at Cas and hopes that his eyes can say what he doesn’t trust his lips to, because the connection between his heart and mouth may still be blocked, but he and Cas are getting good at carving out alternates. He is need and want and he is _here,_ and Cas would choose him over the world but Dean doesn’t think he has to, not anymore.

Slowly, so slowly that at first Dean doesn’t think he’s going to, Cas starts to move his hands. His fingers trace the contours of Dean’s face, outlining his jaw and ghosting across the stubble of his chin. Dean keeps his eyes open this time, fixed intently on Cas’ face, and yet he feels every touch a thousand times more intensely than he had in the darkness. Cas’ own eyes follow the path of this fingers, mapping out Dean’s face like it’s blessed, like it’s holy, like it’s something he never wants to forget. His thumbs brush across Dean’s cheekbones, fingertips arching over his eyelids, palms coming to rest on the side of Dean’s head until he is holding Dean’s face in his hands.

Dean moves his hands from Cas’ wrists to his neck, fingers resting on Cas’ shoulders, and he tilts his head forward until their foreheads are pressed together. Dean’s so close that he can feel Cas’ breath on his lips; so close that when he turns his head, his lips brush against Cas’ skin. He begins to mouth along the line of Cas’ jaw, and a joke comes to mind- _sorry, but my hands don’t work so good_ \- but the hitch he hears in Cas’ breathing when his teeth graze the spot just below Cas’ ear turns it to dust.

Dean breathes in the scent of soap and aftershave and something more-the smells that make somebody flesh and blood, that make them _real._ He goes back the way he came, coming to a rest with his lips a hair’s breadth away from Cas’. It’s the easiest thing in the world to close the gap.

The noise Cas makes is almost a keening sound, Dean’s own desperation echoed back at him, and it’s like two jagged halves fitting together to make something that feels whole. Cas’ hands slide to the back of Dean’s head, pulling him as close as he can, and it might have been a long time since Dean has kissed someone but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten how. He kisses like a dying man given water, like a drowning man finding land, like in this moment his continued existence depends entirely on the feel of Cas’ hair in his hands and his tongue behind Dean’s teeth and Dean really, really wants this existence to continue.

For a while, time doesn’t get any say in things. When it finally butts its way back into Dean’s consciousness, it finds his lips slipping from Cas’, his hands going nowhere and personal space remaining a laughable concept.

Dean is still.

A sick feeling is starting to descend into his stomach, the kind that comes with jumping into a lake and realising, as the water closes over your head, that you do not know the depth. He breathes out, a cautious, juddering thing, and he tries to think of the right thing to say.

“I should make it clear,” Cas says, his voice hoarse and heavy, “that I did not do _that_ with my sister.”

That... had not been on Dean's mind.

If it’s not offensive, it should at least be hilarious- but instead, for some reason, it just makes Dean happy. He chuckles, affection bubbling in his chest until it threatens to burst, and Cas pulls back just enough to let Dean can see the slightly suspicious confusion in his eyes.

“That was a bad thing to say, wasn't it?"

“Uh, kinda,” Dean says, still sniggering. Cas considers this. He starts a sentence, gives up, tries again, gives up, then leans forward and kisses Dean once, lightly.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Cas says, an apologetic explanation.

Dean kisses him back. “Solve more problems that way.”


	5. Chapter Five

Surprisingly little changes.

Dean had been expecting a huge upheaval, a newfound awkwardness- not to mention enough angst to sink the Titanic twice over. Instead, he sits in the garden and squabbles with Jo; Sam brings him books and they argue over whether Holden Caulfield was misunderstood or just a massive dick; he digs up advert after advert for new cars, all of which Cas finds some small but vital error with. Cas had already been visiting nearly every day, and Dean was already spending a lot of time around his house- the only thing that’s changed is that, now, they spend a lot more time touching.

A huge part of Dean still feels like he’s being selfish, like this relationship is a burden Cas shouldn’t have taken on, but that’s nothing new either. It’s been five months since they met, and that’s been five months of Dean not thinking he was worth it. Cas has spent a lot of time working to dispel that belief, and he’s not showing any intentions of stopping.

Benny increases the difficulty of Dean's hand exercises and Tessa keeps on dragging words out of him, like she’s pulling out bits of sadness with hooked wire and cauterising the lesions left behind. He doesn’t tell her about Cas- he hasn't told anyone yet. It’s not something he wants people examining.

Two weeks later, Sam arrives with no warning to find Dean more or less in Cas’ lap. Dean pulls away almost instantly, but it’s a lost cause.

“Okay, so this is _not_ how I wanted you two to meet,” is all Dean manages to say. Sam’s already got his bitch-of-a-little-brother face on, an expression that’s somewhere between ‘what the fuck is this?’ and ‘man, I am _so_ teasing you about this later’.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas says after a few seconds, all stilted awkwardness. Sam swallows and nods.

“I’m guessing you’re Cas?”

“Castiel Novak,” Cas introduces himself, standing up from the bed to shake Sam’s hand.

“Dean talks about you a lot,” Sam says.

“I do not,” Dean says, at the exact same moment as Cas says “He does the same about you.”

“He does now, does he?” Sam says, looking at Dean. “Does he say good things?”

Cas hesitates. “Mostly.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, that’s about the best I could hope for.”

“Bitch,” Dean mutters without thinking.

“Jerk,” Sam replies instinctively.

“I believe I may now understand the card,” Cas says to Dean, his voice low.

“You saw that?” Sam questions, overhearing.

“You seriously thought these hands did _that_?” Dean snorts. “He didn’t just see it, man, he wrote it.”

“Of course, yeah. I forgot you were already volunteering back then,” Sam says to Cas, who looks embarrassed.

“I don’t volunteer much anymore,” he says. “I haven’t in… months, actually.”

“I’m special,” Dean grins. Sam rolls his eyes and then looks back at Cas. Something changes in Sam’s face- softens, maybe. Dean looks at him suspiciously, but Sam’s not giving anything away.

“Listen, so I'm gonna go,” Sam says.

“You don’t have to,” Cas objects, but Sam shakes his head.

“No, I just wanted to- I had news,” he admits. Going by the look in his eyes, it’s good.

“Spill,” Dean says.

“I can leave,” Cas offers.

“You two are gonna give me abandonment issues soon,” Dean groans. “Sit down, both of you.”

Sam and Cas both sit down, Cas picking the chair furthest away from Dean. Dean’s uncomfortably reminded of being fifteen and turning into an overly formal statue whenever a girl’s father turned up early.

“Well?” Dean prompts, looking at Sam.

“Jess is pregnant,” Sam says, the words all spilling out in one go as his mouth twists into a huge smile, an expression that Dean instantly finds mirrored on his own face.

“Before the wedding?” he crows. “Sam, you dog!”

“Congratulations,” Cas says, sounding genuinely pleased. “When’s she due?”

“She’s two months pregnant, so… April?”

“Are you moving the wedding?”

“We thought about it doing it sooner, but Jess said she’d rather not spend her wedding day being a super-cranky pregnant woman. She’s already got this thing about how big the kid’s gonna be.”

“Then she shouldn’t have bred with Kansas’ answer to the abominable snowman,” Dean says. “So, what is it? A Samantha or a Jesse?”

“Obviously we don’t know yet, but I think it’s a girl. She thinks it’s a boy.”

“Good luck having a four month old _anything_ at the wedding.”

A look of fear flashes over Sam’s face, the kind of that Dean thinks Vietnam flashbacks probably look like. “We’ll cope,” he says, very cautiously.

Sam and Cas both stay for a while longer. Cas leaves first, leaving Dean with a younger brother who’s got a shit-eating grin on his face by the time Cas closes the door.

“So,” Sam says, in a voice that he probably thinks is casual. “You and Cas, huh?”

“Me and Cas _what_?” Dean says, before realising he’d really rather Sam didn’t say it. “No no no, I get it. Uh, yeah. I guess. Just don’t go painting the halls with it, okay? We’re keeping things on the down low for now.”

“Of course, yeah,” Sam says. “How long have you two been a… thing?”

Dean would deny that he and Cas are ‘a thing’, but he guesses they kind of are. “Two weeks.”

“Seriously?” Sam blurts out.

“What do you mean, ‘seriously’”

“It just- I’m not being funny, Dean, but this has kinda been on the cards for a while now.”

“What? I don’t even- what?” Dean says again, incredulously. “You’d never even _met_ him before today!”

“The way you talk about him? Trust me, I didn’t need to.”

“Okay, so this is gross,” Dean says. "I think we're done here. As long as you’re not gonna sweep in to defend my honour or whatever-”

“Like you have any honour,” Sam snorts. “Though if I'm being honest, I wasn’t sure at first.”

“Not that you get any say in it- but why not?”

It takes Sam a while to phrase his reply. “You’ve been really alone for a really long time, Dean. You didn’t see many people, you weren’t in the best headspace, and I thought maybe…  Cas could be taking advantage of you. Don’t look at me like that,” he says defensively. “I’m not gonna apologise for wanting what’s best for you. Yeah, I was worried. Sue me.”

“ _Was_ worried, huh?” Dean says tightly, ready to lash out if he has to. “Something change your mind?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Today. When you said you were special, you should’ve seen the way he looked at you. It was like… you said it as a joke, and he knew that, but it didn’t feel like a joke to him. I see the way Jess looks at me sometimes- and man, I thank God that she does- and that’s the way he looked at you. Like you were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.”

“This conversation is over.”

“Noted,” Sam says. “I’m just… I’m happy for you, okay?”

“ _Over,_ Sammy,” Dean stresses, and Sam holds his hands up.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

“Probably a good idea,” Dean says. “After all, your cranky, pregnant fiancé will be waiting.”

“She’s not cranky,” Sam defends.

“Not _yet._ ”

“No worse than usual."

* * *

The next week, Dean buys Sam’s laptop off him.

Initially, Sam wanted him to take it for nothing- he’s been saving up for months to buy a new one, and he kept insisting he’s got no need for the old one- but Dean’s never been great with charity. They ended up settling on $150, with the mouse thrown in for good measure.

Ash turns up to check it out, deems it passable, and then dicks about with the settings for a while. Dean has no idea what he does, but it makes the keyboard a hell of a lot easier to use. Now, he has to press and hold each key for a half-second before the computer agrees to type the letter. Whilst it takes a little longer to write out each word, the time he saves not having to edit out mistakes from where his fingers slipped more than makes up for it.

That being said, Dean thinks his hands are starting to get a little better. He says as much to Benny later in the week, who agrees and asks a few questions about how things are in day-to-day life. After Dean admits he still gets pretty frequent pain in his wrists and hands, Benny bullies him into asking Bobby for a stronger painkiller- apparently, ‘manning up and dealing with it’ isn’t an acceptable analgesic. As much as Dean dislikes relying on drugs, he has to admit that he doesn’t miss the feeling of somebody randomly taking a machete to his joints.

Dean still goes around Cas’ house, though he doesn’t use his computer anymore. Sometimes, Dean brings his own laptop and tries to talk Cas into buying various classic cars, but mostly they just talk. Cas hates work more than ever, and Dean thinks this is the closest he's ever been to just giving up and quitting.

One late September afternoon, Cas is much quieter than usual. Dean’s sitting on the sofa by Cas, wheelchair parked nearby, and after a while he reaches over and nudges him.

“Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, don’t give me that. What’s wrong?”

“It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death,” Cas says. There’s so little emotion in his tone that, at first, Dean doesn’t quite process the words and thinks Cas has given another excuse. When understanding clicks, he feels like the world’s biggest asshole. He already knew Cas’ mother died when he was young- breast cancer, caught too late after it metastasized- but Cas never really talks about it.

“Shit, Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean says. He leans against Cas gently, his head bumping against Cas’ neck. Cas winds his arm around Dean’s upper back, resting his hand on Dean’s other shoulder. “Do you remember her?”

“I was only two years old,” he says, “so no. Inias is two years older, so he remembers a little more. Anna was the only one of us who could ever recall her face.”

Shit, the tragedies just keep heaping on today. “And the others are all half-siblings, right? Different mother?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “My father will probably visit the grave, but I don’t know if they’ll go too. She’s buried in Illinois- maybe I should have driven over, but…”

“Long way from Kansas to Illinois,” Dean agrees. “Is Inias going?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since we visited Anna’s grave.”

It’s been two months since then; two months since Cas turned up in Dean’s room, his hair dripping with rain and his eyes full of sorrow. “How come you guys never talk? You fight or something?”

“No, nothing like that,” Cas says. “There’s no anger or malice there, just… a lack of common ground. When Anna was still alive, we stayed close for her sake, but the only thing linking us after she passed was pain that she was gone. We reached a mutual decision to fall out of contact.”

“That’s disgustingly sensible,” Dean says. “I swear, you’ve never done a bad thing in your _life_.”

Cas laughs at that, a nasty sound, and Dean looks on in interest. “Oh, man, tell me.”

“No,” Cas says instantly, aggressively, and Dean pulls away to look at him.

“Cas?”

“No. It’s… no,” Cas says, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Listen…” Dean starts, not really knowing where he’s taking this but wanting to try all the same. “Family stuff is hard. I get it.”

“It’s not like that.”

“So tell me what it’s like.” Cas is fiddling with his sleeves again, eyes very firmly not on Dean’s. “Cas, you gotta give me something here, man. You gotta trust me.”

“I don’t want you to know the bad things about me,” Cas admits, his voice small, and a part of Dean’s heart breaks.

“Cas, I am literally ninety-nine percent bad things, but you somehow give enough of a crap to stick around and search for that one percent. You seriously think I could judge you for one bad thing when there’s so much good in you?”

Cas looks at him with eyes that might as well be mirrors, dark and swollen with a thousand things- sadness, desperation, gratitude, pick one, pick them all.

“Dean,” he breathes, like Dean can’t possibly mean it, like he doesn’t understand what he’s saying.

“Try me,” Dean says. “So, you and Inias don’t talk.”

Cas swallows. “Yes, well Inias is the rational one. My stepmother’s genes, on the other hand, apparently contained some kind of mutation that made any children she produced impossible to please.”

 _Now we’re getting somewhere_. “Three of them, right?”

“Balthazar, Hester, Uriel, in that order. Balthazar is nineteen and currently living… somewhere. He left somewhere between the fifth and sixth hundredth fight about his lifestyle choices.”

“What, did the dude sleep with dudes or something?” Dean says.

“Yes, but so did I, and nobody particularly cared about that,” Cas says, and Dean gives a nod of _fair enough._

“It was more the fact that he would sleep with three or so at once, under the influence of the kind of substances you probably spent your career arresting people for dealing,” Cas continues.

“Wow,” Dean says, not quite sure what to say. “That’s, uh… that’s something.”

“I tried,” Cas says, his eyes somewhere far away. “I tried so hard, Dean. I was ten when he was born- I was at boarding school- but I loved coming home to see him. He looked up to me. I was proud to know him… I was proud _of_ him.”

“Yeah, I get you,” Dean says softly. He’s always been proud of Sam, so proud that at times he had no idea how to contain it- on more than one occasion, he caught himself talking to check-out girls or retail workers about his brother. He couldn’t help it; he wanted to tell everyone he saw about Sam’s grades, about the things Sam said, about this genius kid who looked at Dean and saw- against all logic- something superior to himself.

“Balthazar was intelligent, charismatic… we all assumed politics was where he’d end up, given time,” Cas says. “But when he was fifteen, all of that was forgotten. I bought him books on quitting and he wouldn’t read them, so I read them for him, and I tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t listen. I was twenty-five by then- far too old to be able to connect to him- and Hester and Uriel were no use,” Castiel spits, with surprising venom. Dean’s face must say it all, because Cas twists his lips like he wishes he could take the words back.

“That was unfair of me. Hester loves her family, myself and Inias included. She loves us fiercely, and she saw Balthazar’s refusal to talk to us or to change as a betrayal. When our father finally gave Balthazar an ultimatum- get clean or get out- she viewed his choosing the latter as treason. She’s an angry girl, Dean- seventeen now, and just _angry_ with everything. It ruins her,” he says. Carefully, Dean moves his hand to Cas’ arm and squeezes lightly. Cas shoots him a brief look of gratitude.

“How about Uriel?” Dean asks.

“Her opposite,” Cas says bluntly. “He hated our father.”

“Why?” Dean says, surprised.

“As time went on, our father became… steadily more absent. It seemed that by child number five, he’d lost all interest. Our stepmother loved Uriel, of course, but that wasn’t enough for him. By the time Uriel was ten, Inias, Anna and myself had all moved out, and there was just Hester ordering him to love his family and Balthazar determined to give him reasons not to. He’s angry too, but he turns it into darkness. He’s rarely at home, and when he is, he refuses to talk to any of us.”

“Christmas must be hellish,” Dean says, for lack of anything else.

“I don’t go,” Cas says. “Ever. I hate myself for it, but I don’t. I can’t handle their denunciations of Balthazar, and I can’t handle the silences with Inias because we have nothing to say, and I don’t know how to talk to Hester or how to even _try_ with Uriel. Whenever I phoned our father, he never answered and he never rung back. And Anna-” he swallows hard, and Dean can tell that’s not a road they’re going down today.

“They all needed so much, in their own ways, and whatever I gave was never enough,” Cas says. “Balthazar still snorted and injected and drank, and Anna was still ill, and Hester still fought and Uriel wouldn’t talk. After Anna died, it all got worse, and I couldn’t handle it anymore. I stopped answering calls. I stopped opening my emails. I pushed it all away.”

Dean’s never seen Castiel like this, stumbling on the words that fight each other to spill out of his mouth. If Dean represses, Cas _controls_. Nearly everything Cas says is carefully calculated to reveal only what he deems ‘safe’; he keeps his walls high enough that only the tallest, greenest trees are seen, that the weeds and debris underneath stay hidden from sight.

“Meeting with Inias served as a reminder of the things I was running from,” Cas says, "a problem I resolved by running further. You called me a good person; you were wrong. I have nobody, Dean, because I couldn’t put aside my own feelings long enough to have anybody.”

Dean’s been listening to every word Cas says, but he’s interpreting the same material in a very different way. He’s hearing that sometimes Cas lets anger or disappointment overtake love, that sometimes he can’t cope, that he tries but that he fails because he’s _human._ That he was human enough to run, and human enough to be saddened when nobody ran after him.

Dean means to tell Cas as much. He wants to tell him that you can love your family and still push them away, to tell him that Balthazar probably hates every second he’s telling Cas to fuck off but that he hates himself even more, hates himself too much to stop. He wants to promise that nothing’s changed, that nothing’s lessened; to swear that Cas did his best, and that it wasn’t his fault when ‘his best’ eventually, inevitably ran out. Dean means to say a lot of things, but for once his heart and his mouth are working in tandem, and his brain doesn’t get a say.

“You’ve got me,” he hears himself saying. The surprise in Cas’ eyes turns into wonder as Dean holds his gaze unwaveringly. A weak smile flickers over Cas’ face, and Dean suddenly thinks that maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say.

“Cas...” Dean says. “I’m awkward. I’m stubborn, and I’m a dick, and I want you to swear that if that ever gets too much- if you ever want to call this off and get the hell out of here- you will.”

“I couldn’t leave you,” Cas says quietly.

“Dammit, Cas-”

“No,” Cas says simply. “There would be too much to miss. With my family, all I ever felt was sadness - there was no relief, no reward. There were no ‘good days’. With you… you described it as ‘one percent good versus ninety-nine bad’. I believe you got the percentages the wrong way around.”

Dean looks at Cas, sure that he must be joking, but he isn’t. He really, genuinely isn’t.

“You’re a good person, Dean,” Cas says. “You love your family, and you hold me in irrationally high regard considering what I did to mine.”

“What, taking a break from a set of dysfunctional assholes that had you halfway to a nervous breakdown?” Dean says incredulously.

“I thought you’d find it deplorable.”

“I find it _sane._ ”

“Even if it _was_ the right thing to do, it didn’t feel that way,” Cas says heavily. “I’m so ashamed of what I did.”

Dean smiles softly, because this time, he doesn’t even have to think about the answer.

“Thing is,” he says, closing his fingers around Cas’, “someone once told me that things are only shaming if you let them be.”

* * *

Dean’s eating dinner one night when Jo turns to him and says “Hey, can I use your laptop?”

“Why?” he asks suspiciously.

“Porn,” she says bluntly. Becky averts her eyes; Meg rolls hers and doesn’t bother commenting.

“Ha, ha. No, seriously, what?”

“Looking for a new chair,” Jo says. “Doesn’t look like I’m gonna stand up again, so I might as well sit down in style.”

Not even Dean’s a big enough asshole to say no to that. “Sure,” he says, and so he winds up sitting by Jo’s side as she scrolls through wheelchair listings.

“That one looks good.”

“Sure, if you’re in Ireland _._ ”

“My bad,” she says, changing the country settings. “Okay, what about that one?

Dean looks at her. “Seriously?”

“What?” she defends. “It’s in Oklahoma, that’s not too bad.”

“It’s _tartan,_ Jo.”

“You wear tartan all the time.”

“I wear _plaid._ ”

“Same difference.”

“Now you’re just embarrassing yourself.”

Dean was only intending to help Jo out, but now he’s looking, he has to admit that some of these chairs are… actually kind of badass. He doesn’t understand what all of the terms in the specification mean, or what’s good and bad, but there’s no question that some seem better than others.

When Cas visits the following day, he finds Dean buried in research- and not, this time, for cars.

“Okay, but check this one out,” Dean says, pointing at the screen. “Quick release wheels, lightweight as hell, and it comes with a goddamn _memory foam_ seat.”

“That’s… good?” Cas says hesitantly. Dean snorts.

“Yeah, Cas, that’s good.” Cas nods, satisfied, and Dean adds “ _Unlike_ your car.”

“Dean Winchester, you could make a living out of telling people how bad their cars are.”

“One of my many talents,” he says, and Cas kisses the grin off his face.

Maybe Cas is a little more psychic than Dean thought, because in the late evening of that very same day, Dean stumbles across a car forum with the most pathetic plea for help he’s ever seen.

The guy writing the post is a newly-made orphan, who came back from his father’s funeral to realise he’d been left his parent’s old car- their first car, their love, their pride and joy. He drove their vintage Impala for exactly fourteen miles before it broke down.

Judging by the way he writes- somebody asks him if its an automatic or a manual, and he replies ‘which one has the stick again?’- he’s feeling little like a polar bear that’s been dumped in the Sahara desert and expected to farm cacti. Nobody’s given him any useful advice, his uncle is coming to visit tomorrow and has said several times how excited he is to see the car, and the guy posting is very clear that he can’t afford to take the thing to a mechanic on such short notice.

So far, Dean’s been taking a Star Trek approach to the whole online car advice thing: observe, but don’t interfere. But it’s not like his boy Kirk to let an innocent creature suffer- and damn, that car is _definitely_ an innocent here.

Two hours later, Dean’s somehow created an account on the site and left the guy a detailed, step-by-step, ‘your Chihuahua could probably follow these damn instructions’ guide to troubleshooting his car. It takes a long, long time to type out, but Ash’s keyboard mods help, and it’s not a topic Dean minds concentrating on. The model isn’t a 1967, so it’s not quite as familiar as the wrecked shell of a car Dean left for the police to deal with, but hey, Dean can be flexible.

Right before Dean goes to bed, he gets a private message from the guy who started the thread.

\- - - - -  
 _[reply] [forward] [delete]_

To: dwinchester  
From: flyboy77 _[block] [report user]_  
Subject: car advice

thank you thank you thank you oh my god you are a lifesaver thank you so much!!! i tried everything you said and i don’t know which bit fixed it but it’s working now

do you want money or anything

\- - - - -

“Some people,” Dean tells the screen, “really shouldn’t be allowed to own the cars they do.”

\- - - - -  
To: flyboy77  
From: dwinchester  
Subject: re: car advice

It’s ok, glad I could help.

No just take care of her!!

\- - - - -

It’s been a while since Dean got to be the one riding in on a metaphorical white horse. It's a good feeling.

* * *

As October goes on, autumn starts to make itself known. Now when Cas leaves, it’s dark outside, and Dean starts layering up again because it’s getting too cold for t-shirts. He can handle the change in weather, but the temperature isn’t the only thing that’s on the decline.

At first, he doesn’t mention it to anyone. His hands are hurting more often, and no matter how many painkillers he swallows, he can’t block it out. He’s hyperaware of their presence, of the way the muscles cramp and twist and pull his fingers into gnarled positions. He keeps waiting for it to pass, but it doesn’t. Doing PT hurts, and so he quits doing the exercises when Benny isn’t around, figuring it’s a good idea to rest. After a few weeks, he stops taking the drugs too, because what’s the point? They weren’t helping.

He’s still been visiting Cas’ house, or going into the nearby town with him- there’s a quiet corner of the park Dean doesn’t mind sitting in, far away from the brats he knows will point and laugh- but he’s starting to wonder what the point is. He feels people’s eyes on him more than ever, and it feeds right back into the cycle of _hands get worse, people stare, hands get worse, more people stare._ He’s going downhill, and the whole damn world knows it.

After all, Dean still doesn’t get _why_ Cas wants to spend time with him. Coming here and volunteering, okay, that’s a tick on the big cosmic sheet that lets you go upstairs rather than down- but inviting Dean into _his_ life? The idea doesn’t make any sense. It’s never made sense, but recently, Dean can’t seem to get it off his mind. He feels like he’s just sitting around and waiting for the day Cas doesn’t want to come- doesn’t want to be seen with him. He decides to make the decision before Cas can.

“I’m not going out,” he says one day, before Cas has even said hello. “You can if you want. I don’t care.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t make eye contact with Cas and, when Cas touches him, he shies away from it. Cas asks a few questions, but Dean doesn’t answer them. The words seem to be coming from somewhere a long way away and Dean’s mouth feels frozen, like his face is set in concrete. Answering doesn’t seem to be an option. Cas sits with him in silence for half an hour before he leaves again, and Dean throws the remote at the TV so hard the screen shatters.

He tells Ellen it was an accident, grunts the words at her without offering any more of an explanation. He’s not sure that she believes it, but she lets it slide. She asks if he wants to ring Sam, and he tells her to leave him the hell alone. With a sad look, she does.

After she goes, Dean texts Cas and asks him not to come by for a few days. The message takes ten minutes to type out, his fingers fumbling with the small, sensitive keys. He waits for a reply, doesn’t get one, gets into bed and doesn’t get out again until the following afternoon.

In pretty much every horror movie Dean’s ever seen, there’s a scene where the lead character thinks they’ve escaped, the kind of hope the audience knows can only end badly. Before long, the monster they thought they’d left behind comes back in a big way, clamping its teeth down hard. It happens every goddamn time.

That’s how Dean feels now. He feels like he’s drowning, like just when he thought he was out of the swamp something sucked him back in. He can _feel_ the pressure of that dark, dank water on top of him, pressing him down and slowing every movement and thought he has. He can feel himself hazing out of life, some sick, sad creature best pushed to the background and forgotten about.

It’s three days before somebody manages to reach in and grab hold.

“We’ve talked about this,” Benny says firmly, standing in the semi-darkness of Dean’s bedroom. “You gotta get up, brother.”

“Bite me,” Dean replies without emotion.

“Better not. Might like the taste too much and not let go again.”

Dean keeps his back turned away, but he opens his eyes to glare at the wall. “No offence, Benny, but can you get lost?”

“None taken, and nope.”

Dean groans. Benny responds by drawing up a chair by the bed.

“At least look at me,” he says. Angrily, Dean pushes himself up and around to face him.

“Happy?” he snaps.

“Looking at that face?” Benny snorts, but then he quietens down. “What’s goin’ on?” Benny asks gently, like the 200lb teddy bear he is.

“Hate to break it to you, coach, but PT ain’t going so well,” Dean says. He’s always been assured that his unique brand of malfunction isn’t the kind to get worse, but it’s hardly the first promise he’s had broken.

“It’s not working, okay?” he snaps when Benny doesn’t say anything. “My hands are getting worse. It takes me longer to do things. I’m screwing up more and more often, and it’s not gonna get better, so why are we even _bothering_?”

Dean doesn’t understand the look that Benny gives him. “What?” Dean snarls.

"Your hands haven’t been getting worse,” Benny says slowly.

“Uh, yeah, they have.”

“Uh, no, they haven’t. I keep logs, remember? What, you think I just play around with my toys all day then go home and watch cable? I pay attention to my patients, and I can tell you that you’ve only been getting better. Progress is slow, sure, but it’s there.”

“Maybe at first,” Dean says uncertainly. “But from like, the end of September onwards-”

“Improvement or no change,” Benny says. “Never decline. Didn’t know a damn thing was wrong until you threw a hissy fit and wouldn’t play nice today.”

“They hurt more- a _lot_ more. I’m not making that up.”

“Are you taking your meds?”

“No, but-”

“Then are you really surprised?”

“If my hands haven’t been getting worse, why have so many people been staring at me?” Dean says- the final missile in his artillery, the one he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to use. “Huh?”

This time, he understands the look Benny gives him. “They haven’t been staring at me, have they?” Dean says tiredly, the conclusion heavy where it hangs from his mind.

Benny gives a small, sad smile. “I would guess not.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “Shit,” he mutters, pressing his mouth into his palm. “Shit,” he says again.

“You okay?”

It takes Dean a few seconds to answer. “I think I fucked up fucking up.”

A warm hand clasps Dean’s shoulder. “Dean. Dean- would you look at me?”

Dean does so, reluctantly. Benny pulls back and moves a hand to his own neck, reaching inside his shirt to pull out a pendant.

“The hell is that?” Dean asks.

“A gift. Came from a sweet lady called the AA,” Benny says, a hint of pride in his voice as he lets the golden disc drop back against his chest. “Eighteen months since I last touched a drop.”

Dean looks at him in interest, a smile at his lips- the first genuine one for a while. “Good on you, man.”

Benny allows himself a small, self-satisfied nod, before he grows serious again. “We’ve all got our demons, brother. Sometimes, you can get rid of them- sometimes, you can’t. Sometimes, you just gotta focus on all the angels that drown them out. I got Andrea, our kid, work, friends, hobbies- and hell, there are still days when I want to throw it all away for five minutes with a pint of whatever, but I don’t.”

Benny leans forward intently, resting his arms on his knees. “Happiness don’t always come easy, Dean. I ain’t saying it’s been easy, but I’m saying it’s been worth it.”

Dean shakes his head. “You know, if the PT market falls flat, you could make a pretty good motivational speaker.”

“What can I say?” Benny grins. “I’m that kind of man. Now shut up and get up. You got work to do.”

* * *

Cas keeps his distance for a while longer- and when he does visit, he does not pick a good time.

Things have been hard. Getting up is hard- _staying_ up is hard. Persuading himself to shower or eat something or go outside takes physical effort, psyching himself up like he’s about to tackle a goddamn line-backer. The day’s been long and difficult- he had an appointment with Tessa which, whilst probably helpful in the long term, was about as fun as getting his ribcage ripped open- and by the time evening rolls around, Dean’s struggling to find a reason to keep on going.

He’s back in bed, facing the wall, when he hears his door open and the familiar “Hello, Dean”. He’s enough of a selfish bastard that it’s good to hear, like drinking a glass of water and realising how thirsty you’d been.

“Cas,” he says. He hears footsteps and lies silent and still, waiting for something to happen. At first, nothing does- but after a few seconds, he feels the other side of his bed go down as Cas sits.

“Not that I don’t wanna see you,” Dean says heavily, “but I’m not really in the mood for talking.”

“Alright,” Cas responds, and a moment later the weight on the bed shifts. He feels the warm press of a body behind his, though he loses the sensation somewhere around his lower back. An arm slips around Dean’s chest- higher than a normal hold goes, fingers tucking under Dean’s neck.

“I’m not a very talkative person,” Cas murmurs, his breath hot against the back of Dean’s neck. Dean keeps one hand under his pillow and moves the other until it brushes Cas’ arm, holding him in place.

Dean honestly has no idea how much time passes before he next speaks. It feels like years.

“Don’t think that you haven’t made things better,” Dean says, “because you have. Shit, Cas, you really, really have. You just haven’t made things… _better._ You can’t.”

“I know,” Cas replies. Dean feels the drag of a knuckle down the back of his neck before lips take its place, pressing a quiet kiss into his skin.

“I don’t know if I can be fixed,” Dean says, his voice shaking.

“You are not broken,” Cas says, his soft and steady.

Cas leaves four hours later, when Ellen kindly yet firmly tells him it’s against health and safety policies for guests to stay the night. Before Cas goes, he asks what the policy is on a resident spending the night at someone else’s house. Ellen says that as long as it’s cleared in advance, it’s fine. Cas nods and leaves it at that.

* * *

October took effort; November is easier.

Like a child edging their way into cold water, Dean finds his way back into the life he’d been crafting- phoning Sam, visiting Cas, sitting in the park when it’s warm and in quiet corners of bookstores or diners when it’s not.

It’s still not _easy._ November is a bad month for Dean’s family- the anniversary of his mother’s death marks the start of the month, the anniversary of the car crash lying nearer the end. It’s been two years since Dean last stood up, two years since he last heard his father say his name, and that hurts. He meets up with Sam on both anniversaries and whilst they don’t talk much, it’s good to get a visual reminder that, despite everything, Sam made it out okay. Dean’s lost a lot, but he hasn’t lost his brother- somehow, that manages to be enough.

He goes back to taking his pain meds and- with no small amount of internal conflict- sees Tessa once or twice a week. He’s actually a little embarrassed to admit how much it’s helping. He tells her about his father and his mother and Sam; he even tells her about Cas.

“He deserves better.” Dean doesn’t look at her when he speaks. He tells it to the floor, to his useless feet on their footrest, to anything he knows cannot judge him. “He took care of his sister. I don’t want him taking care of me too.”

“Do you feel that Castiel takes care of you?”

“Obviously.”

“How so?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does he push your chair for you?”

“Not usually.”

“Feed you? Dress you?”

“No.”

“Wash you? Catheterise-”

“Fucking hell, Tessa, _no._ ”

“So what _does_ he do?”

Dean senses that ‘show up’ is not the correct answer here. “Uh, he listens to me. Goes places with me. He helped bandage my leg once.”

“And I do all of those things with my husband,” Tessa says wryly. “Those are things you do for people you care about, Dean. Not for people you pity.”

It’s an interesting thought, and one that sticks with Dean as he helps Jo pick out her next chair. She has terrible taste and ignores nearly all of his advice, but it’s still weirdly fun. For himself, Dean’s got his eye on a gorgeous ‘luxury’ chair that’ll set him back a couple hundred dollars. He shows it to Jo and she agrees that it’s nice, though she complains that it’s too big.

“It’s the wheelchair equivalent of a guy with a tiny dick ordering a car with an engine the size of a cow,” she criticises.

“Okay, let’s get things straight- there is _nothing_ tiny here,” he says. “And at least it’s a sensible colour.”

“Red is a sensible colour!”

“What’s wrong with black?” he defends, dragging the laptop back to face him.

“What’s wrong with red?”

“I always know when you two are missing,” a voice comes from the door, “because my job suddenly gets a lot easier.”

“You love it,” Dean tells Ellen. She rolls her eyes.

“Lunch,” she announces. “We got cheeseburgers, Jo.”

“God is real, and he loves his daughter,” Jo grins. She looks over at Dean. “They’re actually really good, I swear.”

He’s already shaking his head. It’s a pretty good day for his hands, but that doesn’t mean he trusts them enough to try something that risky.

“How do you not like burgers?” Jo says incredulously.

“I _do_ ,” Dean says defensively. “I just don’t like wasting a whole burger when my hands… you know. Quit being hands.”

“So get it cut up,” Jo says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Dean barks out a laugh.

"That’s not happening.”

“Can we have two burgers, both cut up?” Jo asks Ellen.

“You don’t need yours like that,” Dean accuses Jo.

“Don’t tell me what I need.”

“Probably easier to let her have her way,” Ellen says to Dean, not unkindly.

“Fine, whatever,” Dean sighs. “Burger it is.”

As if that wasn’t bad enough, Jo drags Dean out to eat with the others. He keeps trying to object, but every time he does, she just goes “ _I’m_ doing it”, and gives him this look like ‘are you really gonna get beaten by a girl?’

A girl, Dean could live with. _Jo_? Shit, no.

The burgers come out already cut into eighths, and the shame that that sends burning through Dean’s bones is quickly dampened when he takes a bite. It’s not the best he’s ever had, but after nearly two years without, it’s pretty fucking close.

Once he’s finished, Jo looks over at him and smirks.

“What?” he says

“Nothing,” she hums, and Dean steals the final eighth of her burger straight from her plate. The ensuing fight is very much worth it.

* * *

The next day, Dean gets an email telling him he’s received a new personal message. At first he thinks it’s a mistake, but when he clicks through, he’s taken to a forum that feels loosely familiar. After clicking on a few things, he remembers- it’s that car website, the one he used to give advice to that poor bastard with the Impala.

\- - - - -  
 _[reply] [forward] [delete]_

To: dwinchester  
From: lost_at_sea _[block] [report user]_  
Subject: No Subject

Sorry to bother you but I saw that post you wrote about troubleshooting the impala, and I was wondering if you knew anything about jaguars? I just bought my first one and there are some engine problems I want to get fixed but my garage charges stupid prices. If you have any free time could you maybe give me some advice? Thanks

\- - - - -

It’s a weird message, but it’s not entirely unwelcome. It makes something pleasant glow in Dean’s chest, and he smiles as he types out his reply.

To: dwinchester  
From: lost_at_sea  
Subject: Sure!

I can try. What’s wrong?

\- - - - -

While he waits for a response, Dean idly browses through the Chevrolet subsection of the forums- and, after that, every other subsection in alphabetical order.

The forum’s pretty big, with users from all over the world. It’s a strange blend of novices who spell the word ‘carburetor’ in increasingly interesting ways, one-time users who want help fixing their Ford Focus and want it _now,_ and a big group of admirers and collectors of classic cars. If it’s possible to fall in love with a website, Dean thinks he probably does. He can’t stop himself from commenting a few times, and by the time the guy replies, Dean’s midway through a heated but good-natured battle on the benefits of Japanese vs. American cars. He bookmarks the site before he goes to bed, and after that he visits it most days.

He’s sitting in the lounge one day and complaining to Jo about how typing sometimes hurts his hands, when Ash looks up like an owl hearing prey.

“Voice transcription software,” he says immediately. “Your laptop will have some inbuilt, but it’s probably crappy. Let me hook you up.”

Dean attempts to object, but standing between Ash and anything technology related is like standing between a mother bear and her cub. Within a week, his computer is fitted with some of the best speech-to-word software the market has to offer. Ash pays for half of it- he says that the satisfaction of a job well done is way more rewarding than a fistful of dollars could ever be.

It’s a few weeks before somebody from the forum, in an attempt to be friendly, asks him what he drives. Dean stares at the screen with a pang of pain, and temporarily debates just shutting the laptop and never going on the site again. Instead, he sighs, then speaks into his microphone.

 **dwinchester  
** I used to drive a chevy 67 but I got in this accident and now I’ve got four wheels under me all the time if you know what I mean. Sucks but what can you do.

He closes the window and reads for a while, not expecting any replies and not wanting to see any he _does_ get. He doesn’t check again until the next day, when his emails inform him he has seven unread private messages- and that’s not counting replies to his post.

The responses range from offering condolences to enthusing about Impalas, but none are overly sympathetic, and nobody asks ‘what the hell are you doing on a _car_ forum?’. The private messages are mostly from people telling more personal stories- their brother/mother/wife went through a similar thing, so they know how it sucks, etc etc. The whole thing is a little overwhelming, to be honest, and by the time he clicks on the last message he feels almost shell-shocked.

\- - - - -  
 _[reply] [forward] [delete]_

To: dwinchester  
From: hotwheels85 _[block] [report user]_  
Subject: your post

Hey, Dean!

I’ve been in a chair since I was 12- got scared at a sleepover, phoned my parents, drunk driver hit us on the way home, massive bummer all around. My girlfriend’s really into cars so I spend a lot of time on here (personally, I’m more into dragons. Or broomsticks. I’m getting carried away, sorry).

I wondered if you’d ever tried hand controls? I’ve been driving my car for six years and I’m better than pretty much everyone who drives with their feet, lbr. You should check it out!

Have a good day,  
Charlie

\- - - - -

Dean spends a long time looking at Charlie’s message before he replies.

“Hand controls,” he says under his breath, as he opens up Google in another page. “Huh.”

* * *

In mid-November, Dean stays with Cas for the first time. He gets about four separate lectures from Bobby and various carers on making sure he takes care of himself, that he doesn’t let himself get too hot or too cold, that he eats, that he drinks, that he phones them or the local hospital right away if he starts to think something’s up, yada, yada. He nods along with all of it and wonders if he can persuade Cas to let him get drunk. At the home, most residents capable of drinking alcohol are more than welcome to- Dean, however, is a special case. When he living with Sam and Jess, Sam found him blackout drunk once too many times, and now his file contains the ever-pleasant phrase ‘recovering alcoholic’- as if it wasn’t a depressing enough read already. 

Unfortunately for him (or maybe fortunately; Dean decides against thinking about it too hard), Cas doesn’t drink. The strongest thing in his house is his goddamn _mouthwash_ , and so Dean sticks to root beer.

It goes like any visit does, except Dean stays later and Cas orders pizza for dinner. Dean rips small pieces off, a pretty effective technique that lets him take down three slices in half an hour. It’s good to feel like himself again. Cas has bought pie too, because he’s an asshole who insists Dean deserves nice things, and Dean holds the fork over the bowl so that when he drops it (twice), he doesn’t have to get a clean one. Cas eats an apple instead and, ridiculously, insists it’s more or less the same.

 _This is the man I’ve fallen in love with,_ Dean thinks incredulously, the ‘L’ word slipping into his head like it belongs there. When he realises, he’s surprised by how little weight the revelation holds. He’s in love with Cas. All he can really say on the matter is _uh, duh._  

It makes getting into bed with the guy a lot more awkward, though. From a practical side of things, Cas’ bedroom is upstairs, so he’s had to pull out the sofa-bed downstairs. He insists that he doesn’t mind, but Dean still feels bad. The transfer from chair to bed is pretty easy, though, and Dean parks his chair by the bed for if he wants to get up in the night. The familiar shape is strangely comforting.

Cas wanders through in a t-shirt and boxer shorts, and Dean doesn’t even _try_ not to stare. Cas catches him, smirks, and pulls the sheets back on his side of the bed. He flicks the light off and lies down next to Dean, and this is where the emotional side of things come in, because Dean has no friggin’ clue what to do with his hands. Or face. Or, uh, anything.

“Hi,” he says, eyes flickering from Cas’ face to his lips to where his collarbone peeks out from the neck of his shirt.

“Hello,” Cas replies- and then, after a few seconds, “You can touch me, you know.”

“Forward, but I’ll take it,” Dean says, slinging his arm around Cas’ waist. Cas moves closer, pressing his face into Dean’s neck and wrapping both arms around his shoulders- high again, high enough so that Dean can pinpoint where his fingers come to rest. They drift across Dean’s shoulders, rubbing small circles into his skin, lips mouthing at Dean’s throat until Dean drags Cas’ face up to meet his.

Kissing Cas has a strange way of making Dean forget the rest of the world exists, but after a while, the sick feeling licking at the walls of his gut grows too great to be ignored. He breaks away and ducks his head out the way when Cas tries to chase his lips again.

“Dean?” Cas asks, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“I, uh,” he says, and wow, this really is not a conversation he’s been looking forward to. It’s one they need to have, though, so Dean moves his eyes to fix somewhere past Cas’ shoulder as he speaks.

“I don’t know if I can- you know,” he says. “I don’t know if I can even _get_ \- and that might be a mind thing or a body thing or it might be both, but either way, it’s a problem. Obviously.”

“Obviously?” Cas says blankly.

“Jesus, Cas, do I need to spell this out for you? I don’t know if I can have sex. Ever. Okay?”

Dean lets his eyes flicker to Cas’ face and is surprised to find that whilst Cas doesn’t look _angry_ as such, it’s a very close thing.

“I will never understand,” Cas says, “why you continue to place so much importance on your body.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t want you for sex, Dean. I’m not here because of your hair, or your skin, or your bone structure. I’m not saying you’re not attractive- I don’t think there’s a human being alive who could deny _that_ \- but I am far more interested in what’s inside you than the package it comes in.”

“You sound like a serial killer.”

Cas shuts his eyes. “You really do have a talent for killing the moment.”

“I learned it from the best.”

Cas’ face breaks into a small smile then, a slight laugh. “There are ways,” he said eventually, “around everything. If and when you feel ready to explore them, we will. Until then, don’t let it bother you. Please.”

“I’m not the type to give it up on the first date anyway,” Dean says. “Actually, that’s a lie, I totally am.  But I… yeah. Thanks,” he says quietly. Cas’ only response is to press another gentle kiss to Dean’s lips- one which Dean returns until something occurs to him.

“Wait,” he says suspiciously. “What do you mean, ‘there are ways’?”

“Disabled people can still have active sex lives,” Cas says. “There are methods-”

“How do you know that?”

Cas has the good grace to look flustered. “I may have conducted some research.”

“ _Research_?”

“Google contains many resources.“

“Castiel,” Dean interrupts. “Did you Google how to have sex with me?”

A pause. “I sense that ‘yes’ is not the correct answer here.”

“ _Cas._ ”

“Maybe.”

Dean starts chuckling, and finds it very hard to stop. “ _Google,_ ” he repeats through his laughter. “Oh my God, Cas. Never change.”

“I meant what I said,” Cas insists, but Dean waves it away.

“I know,” he says- and then, more soberly- “I know. I believe you, okay?”

“Good,” Cas says, splaying his fingers on Dean’s chest. “It’s important to me that you understand.”

“I know,” Dean says for the third time, kissing Cas softly. “I do.”

They stay like that a while longer, exchanging kisses and gentle touches, until Dean breaks off again. Cas has a pre-emptively fearful look in his eyes, already emotionally prepping himself for whichever torrent of bullshit Dean’s going to release next.

“So,” Dean begins. “About these _methods._ I’m gonna need you to enlighten me.” 

* * *

The stay is deemed a success, and after that, Dean spends every Saturday night at Cas’ house. Back at the home, he takes most of his meals on the ward- and whilst he’ll still pick the safe option nine times out of ten, every once in a while, he doesn’t. It’s a small step, sure, but he figures one sandwich a week is better than none at all.

His food comes out already cut up, which makes it a lot easier to handle, but he's actually finding that he drops way less food recently. He's more relaxed at meals, which helps, and whilst his hands still tremor and spasm, his grip is better- he’s learning to pay more attention to what his nerves are telling him. Benny’s real big on ‘listening to your body’. Dean once told Benny that the phrase made him sound like a new-age yoga instructor; Benny threatened to start lighting candles and draping Dean with flower crowns, and that shut him up pretty quickly.

Dean’s been doing some research into hand-control cars, but he still prefers talking about the real deal. He’s getting more well-known on the forum, and he’s been exchanging messages with Charlie for a while now. He’d assumed she was a guy until she sent over a picture of a pretty redheaded woman sitting by a shiny new car, and labelled the file ‘me!’. They started out talking about cars but drifted off-topic quickly, and soon Charlie’s sending Dean lists of the various fantasy series he really, _really_ needs to read. When Dean inevitably has to file for bankruptcy as a result of all the damn books he’s buying, he’s going to blame one Miss Charlie Bradbury.

On the last day of November, a man named Howard- someone Dean only spoke to a handful of times- passes away, and an air of mourning descends on the home. Death is kind of inevitable in a place like this, but that doesn’t mean it’s pleasant. December brings advent, and the staff compensate for the solemn mood by throwing themselves into decoration. Becky starts wearing reindeer antlers every time she works. Dean makes a habit of asking Lilith when she’s planning to do the same, mostly to see how much it annoys her. He’s not disappointed.

Soon, the home looks like Santa’s grotto on steroids. Dean counts no fewer than five Christmas trees- two real, a decent fake, a terrible fake, and one that is honest-to-God fuschia.Jo likes that one best; Dean makes a habit of ‘accidentally’ ramming his chair into it. His excuse is that the wheels are bad, which ties in neatly with his newest purchase. The chair’s all paid for, and Dean’s arranged to have her delivered at the start of the new year. The memory foam pillow cost an extra $5 in the end, which Dean views as necessary expenditure.

When it comes to buying things for other people, though, Dean’s lost. He and Sam have never really done the whole ‘gift’ thing, but he figures he should really get Cas something. The problem is that the only person he leaves the home with _is_ Cas, and he’s not exactly going to say ‘hey, please leave me outside this store and wander around somewhere else for a couple hours’.

Jody offers to take him to a mall nearby- one she knows has wide doors and decent lifts- and, after some deliberation, he agrees. The thought of all those people in such a small space freaks him out, but he figures that if he can push his bullshit aside for anybody, it’s Cas.

Ruby and Ava end up coming along too. Ava draws stares from parents and kids alike- she slumps in her chair, and she drools a little sometimes- but she's good company, and Dean’s not going to complain. Ruby, though, he does complain about- quite vehemently, and she's happy to return the sentiment.

They end up in a book shop, where Dean surveys the displays like a grandmother who was looking for fruit and accidentally wandered into the Apple Store. What the hell do people buy for each other? Cas likes languages, okay- what the hell do you get for someone who likes languages? A dictionary?

“What do you think?” he asks Ava, holding a book up in front of her face. “It’s about France or some crap.”

Ava looks at him.

“What? He likes France. Probably.”

Ava looks at him again.

“You’re not helping,” he tells her, putting the book back. He moves backwards to better see what’s on the top shelves, but none of them look right. He glances over at Ava. “Quit looking at the cake books. You don’t need more cake books.”

Dean ends up going back empty-handed except for two chocolate milkshakes- one for him, and one for Jo. Her food always comes cut up now- apparently MS produces a tremor in something like 75% of cases, and she wasn’t the lucky quarter. She spends a lot more time sleeping, and if she’s not paying attention she sometimes drops words or slurs her sentences. It’s understandably starting to get her down, and Dean figures chocolate-flavoured anything is a pretty good mood-booster.

“You’re gonna give your boyfriend a _milkshake_ for Christmas?” Ruby says on the way back, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not for-” he starts, but then he narrows his eyes. “Why did you call him my ‘boyfriend’?”

“Because I have eyes and ears? You two are so sickeningly in love that it makes me want to punch a baby deer just to try and neutralise the situation.”

“How the hell did you get into care work?”

“I had a really shitty careers counsellor,” she says, and then rolls her eyes. “I’m joking, dumbass. I happen to like it, okay? Helping people and all that. Feels good.”

“Do you like _me_?” he says, batting his eyelashes.

“Don’t push your luck,” she warns. “You know the money doesn’t matter here, right? Whatever you give him, it’ll still come from you. That means a lot more than the price tag.”

“You must want to punch a deer so badly right now.”

“I may vomit,” she admits. “I’m right, though.”

“Probably,” he acknowledges.

“Hey, how about your brother? If you want help getting a gift for him, I’ve got some good suggestions.”

“If you wanted to get him something, you could always try babygros or confetti. For, you know, the baby. And the wedding. To his _wife_.”

“I think you _might_ be trying to say something here, but I just don’t know what.”

“Bitch.”

“Asshole.”

Dean should probably have fewer relationships that revolve around mutual insults.

Christmas gets closer and closer, and soon it’s only a few days away. If Dean’s worried that his gift for Cas isn’t good enough, then he’s friggin’ _convinced_ that his one for Sam isn’t _._

“You’re okay to wait here?” Cas says. They’re standing outside a restaurant, the sky dark but the street well-lit. A few days ago, Cas phoned Sam out of the blue and asked if he and Jess wanted to go out for a meal, so that they could better get to know each other a little better. Sam agreed instantly- was ridiculously eager about the whole thing, actually- and Castiel offered to book the restaurant.

Dean’s not sure _why_ he never got around to telling Sam that, these days, he leaves the care home pretty regularly. At first, he guesses that he was embarrassed- ashamed that it was considered an accomplishment at all, reluctant to hear any kind of pity or praise- and after a while, so long had passed _without_ telling Sam that he’d have to explain why he hadn’t mentioned it before. The whole thing felt awkward whenever Dean thought about it, and so he’s been trying his hardest not to. Sam knows that Dean’s been around Cas’ house, but he has no idea that Dean’s been to parks, bookshops, libraries, diners, malls… okay, Dean hasn’t done the ‘eating in a restaurant’ thing since the crash, but Cas assures him that the restaurant’s been informed and that everything should be fine.

Dean is giving _himself_ to Sam for Christmas. It’s probably the most arrogant gift anybody’s ever given, and Dean regretted suggesting it almost immediately- but Cas had loved the idea, and in the eight months that they’ve known each other, Dean has not gotten any better at saying ‘no’ to him.

“I’m good,” Dean says. “Might need to get a trampoline if our table’s upstairs, though.”

“It isn’t,” Cas says. “It’s right by the front door, apparently. I’d better go in.” They’re a little late as it is- they had to make sure Sam and Jess arrived first. The plan is for Cas to go in, and for Dean to follow in a few minute’s time.

“Knock ‘em dead,” Dean says. Cas has gone for ‘smart casual’ dress, and he looks ridiculously attractive- but, then again, he always does. Dean is wearing jeans, and he’d be a lot more apologetic about that if this wasn’t his first time wearing them in two years. Usually, he lives in sweatpants and t-shirts- easy to pull on and off, with no awkward buttons or zips. Today, though, he made the effort, and he waived his pride enough to let Cas do the fly up for him.

(That had threatened to break his good mood- you’re pretty damn useless, he had thought, if you can’t even do up a button- but then Cas had caught Dean’s eye as he tugged at the zip and given Dean the most _wolfish_ grin he’s ever seen. It’s hard to stay sad when you’re laughing that hard.)

Cas kisses Dean the cheek and goes inside, leaving Dean outside. Being so exposed makes him feel a little uncomfortable, but he doesn’t freak out. He stares at the door, keeping his breathing steady as his hands absently work through the ASL alphabet. After a couple of minutes, a couple go in and the woman pauses, holding the door open for him questioningly. Thanking her, he goes on in.

“I’m with them,” he tells the hostess, nodding over at Cas, Sam and Jess. True to word, they’re the first table you come to- though the table’s in a kind of hollowed-out section that means there’s more than enough room for a wheelchair to be pulled up to it. Where there should be an empty chair next to Cas, there’s a space, and Jess and Sam sit opposite him with their backs to Dean. Cas looks at Dean and immediately moves his eyes past, though a small smile flickers across his face.

Dean moves forwards, his heart pounding in his throat. A few people glance over at him, but they look away again. It’s no big deal. He’s just some guy, going out for dinner with his brother.

_Think of how things were before._

When he gets close enough to hear the conversation, Sam is speaking.

“- salad is really good here,” he’s enthusing.

“If you come to a steakhouse and order salad,” Dean says loudly, “I’ll disown you.”

The speed at which Sam’s head snaps around is almost comical. When he catches sight of Dean, he seems to have some trouble organising his words. “D-Dean?” he gets out eventually.

“No, I’m actually his evil twin,” Dean deadpans. He looks past Sam to catch Jess’ eyes, and something tightens in his chest. She’s as beautiful as ever, but she looks terrified. They haven’t seen each other for at least a year now- at first, her and Sam would visit together, but after a while Jess stopped coming. Dean really can’t blame her.

Cas moves his chair over slightly, and Dean wheels himself into place. Sam’s still looking at Dean like he can’t quite believe he’s real.

“So this is your Christmas present,” Dean says. “Crappy, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll get you beer too. Or porn. Something.”

“It’s fine,” Sam says, his eyes still wide. “This is… this is good. This is really, really good.” Dean thinks that Sam’s actually about to tear up _,_ which is equal parts heartbreaking and hilarious, especially as he thinks that he might be doing the same. He focuses his attention on Jess instead.

“I think I’m supposed to say you look glowing,” he tells her.

“Well, do I?”

“I don’t know. I’m not really sure what that looks like. You look hot, though,” he adds, and Sam and Cas glare at him in unison. Jess snorts with laughter.

“You did well for yourself too,” she says, nodding at Cas. “Very well indeed.”

“I know, right?” Dean says proudly. “Wish I could say the same for you.”

“Ahh, he’ll do.”

“We are here, right?” Sam says to Cas. “They can actually see us?”

“I’m beginning to doubt it,” Cas agrees, frowning.

Dean steers clear of anything that requires too much cutting and orders some cheese-drenched nacho dish, which works pretty well. He orders beer too, but not so much that Sam gets pissy about it. Cas does get steak, but Sam has a salad; Jess orders a burger and exchanges despairing glances with Dean whenever possible. The meal goes well- Dean had forgotten how much he likes Jess, and pretty much everyone seems to like Cas.

“How’re we splitting the bill?” Jess asks once they’re done.

“We could each pay for our own?” Sam suggests.

“Make the pregnant woman pay for her food,” Dean comments. “Classy.”

“Make the man in the wheelchair pay for his,” Jess shoots back. Dean can hear Sam’s sharp intake of breath, but Dean just gives a tilt of his head.

“Touché,” he says. “So we’re making Sam and Cas pay for everything?”

“Sure seems that way.”

They end up splitting the bill a little more evenly than that, and Dean and Cas walk Sam and Jess back to their car.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Jess asks.

“Hadn’t really thought about it,” Dean says. “Cas?”

“I don’t have any plans.”

“You should come around ours,” Sam says. “Jess is a really great cook.”

“It’s easy if you buy all the stuff pre-prepared,” she says cheerily.

 “It’d be really great to have you guys there,” Sam wheedles.

“Are you sure I wouldn’t be intruding?” Cas says uncertainly.

“’course,” Jess said. “Please?”

“I’m down with that,” Dean shrugs.

“That sounds wonderful, thank you,” Cas agrees. “What time do you want us to arrive?”

“Uh… one?” Sam suggests.

“One it is,” Cas says. “I’m going to go and find my car- I’ll drive it over here,” he says to Dean, turning and walking away.

“He might be pretty, but he sure as hell ain’t subtle,” Dean comments, watching him leave. He doesn’t know what kind of _deep_ and _meaningful_ conversation Cas is expecting him to have here, but he’s sure as hell not having it. He turns back to Sam to laugh over the whole thing, but apparently they’re reading from very different songbooks.

“Thank you,” Sam says, his words threatening to spill over with emotion. “I don’t think you know how much that meant to me, Dean, so just… thank you.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, Sam’s weepy gratitude itching him like poison ivy. “It’s okay, Sammy. Honest.”

“It was good to see you,” Jess adds. “I mean, to _really_ see you. I missed this, Dean.”

“Me too,” he admits. “Insulting Sam’s no fun when there’s nobody around to back you up.”

“See you at Christmas?” she says hopefully.

“Looking forward to it,” he confirms, and she kisses him on the cheek. When Sam bends down to hug him, Dean wraps his arms tightly around his little brother, and he hugs back.


	6. Chapter Six

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Ruby greets Dean when he comes out of his room.

“And you, bitch,” he responds. “Jo around?”

“Sleeping.”

“Crap,” Dean says. “I’ll have to catch her later.”

“You got something for her?”

“It’s not much.” Jo had responded so enthusiastically to the chocolate-based reassurance that Dean ended up buying her a family-sized candy bar for Christmas. He hasn’t wrapped it, but he figures Jo isn’t the type to care.

“You got a present for _me?_ ” Ruby asks.

“Getting to know me is reward enough.”

Ruby snorts. “Go on, get out of here. I’m pretty sure lover boy’s car just pulled up.”

Sure enough, when Dean looks out of the window, Cas’ abomination of an automobile is sitting in the parking lot. The man himself arrives a few seconds later, and they’re at Sam and Jess’ within half an hour.

Dean pushes a bouquet of flowers at Jess and, as promised, gives Sam a six pack of beer. In return, Sam tries to give him a cheque to cover half the cost of his new wheelchair, fails miserably, and eventually settles for making Dean take a five dollar bill and a voucher for half-price breakfast at Denny’s.

“You’re really not easy to do nice things for,” Sam says exasperatedly.

“Trust me, I know,” Cas sighs. Jess is busy in the kitchen, and Dean finds his way through there in an attempt to avoid the Dean Self-Esteem Team he suspects Sam and Cas are on the cusp of forming.

“Want any help?” he asks her. From what he’s heard, cooking Christmas lunch is supposed to be stressful. Jess is leaning back against a counter, swigging apple juice from the carton and humming along to very decidedly non-Christmassy rock music.

“It’s pretty much just opening packets, so I think I’m good,” she says. “Thanks anyway.”

“No worries,” he says. Jess offers him the carton of juice, and he shakes his head. She puts it back in the fridge with a shrug.

“Keeping it classy,” he nods.

“As ever,” she says. She pulls up a stool (Dean’s really not shocked that their house has a breakfast bar _)_ and sits down. “So, how’s life?”

“That’s a pretty broad category.”

Jess nods and reconsiders. “How’s car stuff? Cas changed his mind yet?”

Sam and Jess know all about Dean’s attempts to persuade Cas to upgrade. “He’s stubborn, but I’m wearing him down.”

Actually, Dean hasn’t been looking all that much lately. He spends a lot of time on the car forum, but it’s more to help other people than to look for Cas. The other day, he even came across a thread where somebody advised that the person ‘ _ask dwinchester- he’s another user on this site and he’s pretty new, but he really knows his stuff_ ’. It was followed by two posts from other users, neither of whom Dean knew, wholeheartedly agreeing with the endorsement. It was the most weirdly flattering thing that’s ever happened to him, and he tells Jess about it while she ‘cooks’. In return, she tells him about the week-long vacation she and Sam have booked over Valentine’s Day and proceeds to nearly set a pan of sausages on fire.

After Jess has averted the crisis and they’re back in the pleasantly calm stage of sitting around and waiting, she turns to him with what looks like guilt in her eyes. Dean looks at her warily.

“I need to get emotional for a second,” she warns him.

“You probably don’t.”

“No, I do. I’m pregnant, let me have this.”

Dean considers this and nods. “Go on.”

“I’m-sorry,” she says, the words coming out too quickly and merging together.

“What, is the food that bad?”

“You needed us, Dean, and I threw you out,” she says, determined to press on. “I knew Sam didn’t want you to go and you _shouldn’t_ have gone, Dean, and I’m so sorry. I should have been more supportive, I should have-”

“Okay- _woah,_ ” Dean says, holding his hands up. “Stop it, okay?”

Jess closes her mouth and swallows, bracing herself for what Dean has to say.

“Jess, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he says. “Not a damn thing, and I’ll swear that on anything you want. Maybe Sam didn’t want me to go, okay, but he still knew it was the right thing. We all did. Hell, I _wanted_ to go.”

“I thought you hated me,” she says, and Dean doesn’t think that she meant for it to sound that quiet, that saddened.

“I hated everything,” Dean says with a shrug, figuring that honesty is the best policy here. “Don’t take it personally.”

Jess laughs and sniffs, scrubbing at her eyes. Can people please stop crying around Dean? He’s still trying to figure out how to deal with his _own_ emotions without crawling into hibernation for weeks at a time; he really is of very limited use here.

“I don’t hate you now, if that helps,” he says. “And I sure as hell don’t _blame_ you.”

“That does help,” she says- and it’s still quiet, but the sadness has gone. “Thank you.”

“Are we done having feelings now?”

“You could move back in, you know.”

Dean’s taking that as a no. “What?” he says.

“I’ve been hearing from Sam how different you are, and seeing you lately…  the care home is a great place, Dean, but you know you don’t need to be in there.”

That’s… true, yeah. Very few of the home’s residents have the level of movement he does, and even fewer can speak. Jo’s close to his level of functioning, but she’s declining all the time. It’s not a very busy place, but at times, Dean still feels guilty about taking up a space he doesn’t necessarily _need_.

“You’re getting married, Jess,” he says. “You’re gonna have a kid.”

“We have room for you,” she insists. “We’d need to re-organise the house a bit, but that’s easy enough to do.”

“Jess…”

“Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“I’ll think about it,” he agrees, more to make her happy than anything else. She squints at him in a way that suggests she knows _exactly_ why he’s agreeing, but the microwave starts beeping and distracts her. Dean takes that as his excuse to escape, only to return when he finds Sam and Cas midway through a mind-numbingly in-depth conversation on the usage of Greek in classical literature.

The meal goes about as well as could be hoped. Sam carves the turkey, so Dean can just stab at slices with a fork to get them onto his plate. He doesn’t talk much- he’s focusing a _lot_ of his attention on not dropping his cutlery- and he ends up setting the fork down between each bite just to make sure, but it pays off. He makes it through the whole meal with no accidents.

Dean drinks a few cans of beer before Sam starts looking at him suspiciously, so he switches to soda for a while. They watch half a fairly terrible ‘feel-good’ movie before Jess switches it over to Die Hard, which everybody enjoys a lot more.

Their house has a strange layout- the main bedroom is on the ground floor, with the small room they’re setting up as a nursery next to it. The change was done for Dean’s benefit- the small room was his, and Sam and Jess moved downstairs so that if he ever wanted help with something, he could go and fetch them. Needless to say, he never did.

Sam and Jess look a little guilty over converting his old room into a nursery, but Dean doesn’t mind- at least it means he can check it out. They’ve already got the crib set-up, and they’re midway through stencilling a display of butterflies above it.

“Still thinking it’s a girl?” he calls to Sam, who’s asking Jess about something.

“Yeah,” he replies at the same time as she shouts “It’s a _boy_.”

Apparently, they’ve decided against finding out the sex in advance, which Dean can’t even begin to comprehend the reasoning for. He asks if they can persuade the doctor to tell Dean instead- promising that he won’t spill the secret to them- but somehow, they’re not on board with the idea.

Dean’s the last one out of the nursery, glancing around Sam and Jess’ room and noting the changes. It’s been a while since he was last here, and they’ve done some redecoration. The curtains are different, the carpet too, and there’s something tacked up above the right-hand bedside table.

“Dean, you coming?” Sam calls from the corridor.

“One sec,” he shouts back, curious about the thing on the wall. He wheels himself closer, close enough to realise what he’s seeing.

‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY SAM’ the card reads, in shoddily-coloured blue letters. A small smile comes to Dean’s face as he shakes his head softly.

“At least you’re easy to keep happy,” he murmurs, before re-joining the others. 

* * *

Dean and Cas don’t leave until late evening. By the time they get back to the home, Dean’s starting to wonder if they should just forget about this whole ‘gift’ thing.

Cas looks as awkward as Dean feels. “I, uh, don’t really buy presents,” he admits.

“Same,” Dean says. “I won’t laugh if you don’t.”

“I doubt I was going to laugh, but alright.”

They’re still sitting in the car, the internal light flickering every couple of seconds. Dean swears, the car’s started doing this crap on purpose now.

“It’s shitty, I know,” Dean says, handing the carrier bag over. He didn’t wrap this one either, but he felt he should at least _try_ and create some air of secrecy about it. “It’s stupid. You don’t have to have it if you don’t want. I-”

“Stop talking, Dean.”

Dean glares. “Fine, but when you hate it-”

Cas pulls the book out and turns it over gently in his hands, handling it like it’s an artwork of tissue paper and crystal rather than an old, battered paperback.

“It’s my favourite book,” Dean says awkwardly. “A lot of people say Timequake wasn’t his best- and okay, the writing isn’t always great- but it’s just… it means something to me, you know? I like it a lot, and I thought you might… yeah.”

“Is this your copy?” Cas asks, running a finger down the cracked spine.

“Was,” Dean admits. “I don’t mind, I’ve read it too many damn times. I want you to have it- if you want it, I mean.”

“I want it,” Cas says firmly. He puts the book back in the bag, carefully wrapping the plastic around it. He holds it like he doesn’t want to put it down, a look on his face that Dean can only describe as awed. “Thank you, Dean. This is… thank you.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says gruffly.

“I wish I’d given you something more personal now,” Cas says, reaching behind his seat and feeling around. He withdraws a flat parcel, wrapped in dark blue paper.

“Dude, who cares? Gimme.”

Cas looks uncertain, but he hands it over. Dean rips his way into it and pulls out a stack of car magazines- three or four of the thick, expensive kind. On top of them all is an information guide to hand control cars.

“You mentioned them a while ago,” Cas says, “but not since. I wondered if you still…”

“I’d honestly forgotten,” Dean admits. He and Charlie talk more about movies than automobiles, and whilst the thought is always milling around in the back of his skull during painful PT session, it’s more of a vague ‘one-day’ goal than an actual thing to consider. He opens the guide and something else slides out- a long, laminated piece of card. He looks at Cas and raises an eyebrow.

“I saw it in a gift shop,” Cas says. “I liked it.”

Dean’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be a bookmark. It’s pale and un-patterned, coloured to look like parchment, and when he turns it over there are words written across it.

 _You do not have a soul. You are_ _a soul; you have a body._

“I did some research on the quotation afterwards. It’s often attributed to CS Lewis, but that’s incorrect,” Cas says, pulling at his sleeve. “I know it has Christian connotations, but there are obviously alternative-”

Dean leans over and kisses the anxious explanation away. “Thanks, Cas,” he says softly. He tucks the bookmark inside a magazine. “Guess we don’t suck that much at gifts after all, huh?” he says, happiness colouring his tone.

“I guess not,” Cas says, and kisses him again.

From time to time over the next few weeks, when Dean opens or closes a book, he catches sight of the phrase on the bookmark and finds it hard to look away from. He brushes a thumb over the words, letting them stick like the seeds he and Sam used to throw at each other as kids, hoping they won’t get shaken off. They don’t.

* * *

Dean’s new wheelchair arrives in the first week of January, and it’s like moving from a Robin Reliant to a Ferarri. He and Charlie talk a little about different makes of chair, but their conversations are mostly focused back on hand-control cars now. She knows what to look for and what to avoid, what’s good and what isn’t, and he’s taking her advice.

These days, Dean spends a lot of time with Jo and the more tolerable staff members, though he still hides out in his room or Jo’s on Thursdays. He talks to Sam on the phone, and sees him in person when he and Jess visit. Cas visits after work and Dean stays with him at weekends, and they go into town a few times a week.

Dean spends the rest of his time reading, giving advice or having conversations on the car forum, looking up hand-controlled cars for him and foot-controlled ones for Cas, doing PT exercises and talking to Tessa, and just generally… doing things. On one completely average morning, as Dean sits in the lounge reading and determinedly ignoring the cake show on the television, he realises that he might actually be happy.

The recognition feels dangerous, like naming it might make the whole thing fall apart and dissolve in his still-trembling hands. For the next few days, his every action is cautious; Dean does not have a good track record with hope. Time passes, the sky doesn’t fall in and magma doesn’t pour from the clouds, and eventually the feeling of fragility starts to fade.

One early morning in mid-January, Dean is lying with his back pressed against Cas’ chest, sun streaming in through the window, when Cas murmurs “Move in with me.”

Dean, for his part, woke up twenty seconds ago and is not yet capable of thinking rationally. “Okay,” he mumbles, before he goes back to sleep.

He wakes up for real three hours later, yawning and feeling behind him for Cas. “Hey. You up?”

“I am now,” Cas says irritably. Neither he nor Dean are morning people; they know by now not to take anything the other says personally before ten A.M.

“You feel like making breakfast?”

“You do it,” Cas complains, wrapping his arms tighter around Dean’s chest and burying his head in the back of his neck. After Dean started staying the night, Cas stopped using the high shelves in his kitchen. Dean can reach most things in there now- he can certainly make toast, if nothing else.

“Easier said than done when you’ve got the whole octopus arms thing going on,” Dean points out.

“Nnngg,” is the only reply he gets as Cas pulls him tighter. Dean laughs and then stops as a memory surfaces, wobbly and unclear.

“Cas?”

“Mmm?”

“Did you ask me to move in with you?”

There are a few seconds of silence, and then the arms around Dean’s chest are pulled away. Dean plants one hand on either side of his body and pushes, propping himself up against the back of the sofa-bed.

“I think I may have,” Cas says, frowning like he’s just come across an exam question that was definitely _not_ covered in lesson.

“Well, did you mean it?”

“Yes,” Cas says. No uncertainty there.

Dean laughs, but Cas barely even twitches. “That’s a really, really terrible idea.”

“No it isn’t.”

“You want to give me any reasons for that?”

“I like you. I don’t like not seeing you. It’s a very logical decision.”

“I’m a lot of effort.”

“I lived with my sister for the best part of three years,” Cas points out, “and her degree of paralysis was far greater than yours. I know what to expect.”

“You’re actually serious about this, aren’t you?” Dean says, twisting to face Cas as best as he can. Cas nods, his eyes earnest and… hopeful.

“I could convert a downstairs room into a bedroom,” Cas says, “or sell the whole place and buy a bungalow instead. Or buy a stairlift.”

Dean has no intention of getting on a stairlift until he’s eighty-four with two broken hips, but he figures that’s not relevant right now. “Wow,” he says instead. “I… wow. Shit, man. Can I think about it?”

“If you want,” Cas says, his tone unchanged. He knows Dean too well to expect anything else.

Dean _does_ think about it. He thinks about it a lot, so damn hard that he even talks to _Tessa_ about it. She says the same thing that Cas did, the argument that a good half of Dean’s mind is set on believing: that Cas knows what he’s signing up for, that Dean’s been ready to leave the care home for some time now, that it might take some work but that most good things do. She even acknowledges that he would get to ‘end some unsatisfying relationships’, which is a polite way of saying ‘no more staring at Lilith and hoping she chokes on her food’.

The darker whispers in his head- the ones that say that Cas deserves better, that Dean is a burden, that it would be better for everybody if he was out of the picture altogether- have already been there for a long, long time. Facing them is less waging a full-scale war than it is pest control.

The day before Dean’s birthday, he texts Cas one word:

_You – 14:39  
Yes_

His birthday is a very good day. 

* * *

Moving in is easier said than done. Cas’ house might be okay for staying overnight, but it’s not suitable for Dean to live in full-time. Cas keeps insisting he wants to downgrade, and he’s found a one-story place nearby that he says he loves the look of, but Dean hates the idea of forcing Cas to uproot.

Sam and Jess are both delighted to hear the news (though Sam does attempt to have a serious, brotherly, ‘ _Dean are you really sure’_ talk), and they offer to give Cas some of the stuff they kept around when Dean was still living with them- transfer boards, ramps, all that crap. Cas still has some things from when he lived with Anna, but neither he nor Dean really want to use them. Cas and Sam spend a lot of time negotiating and, for the most part, Dean leaves them to it.

Their planning is interrupted when Cas gets informed by his boss that he’s needed for a mandatory training week in Denver, Colorado. He flies out on the 15th of February, and he is not impressed about it.

“I don’t like planes,” Cas complains five days before he’s due to go.

“Then drive.”

Castiel just _looks_ at him. “Sorry, forgot who I was talking to,” Dean says, before his laughter gives way to coughing. Internally sighing, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Coughing's still a bitch, but there’s not much he can do about it. Cas rests a hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing gently, and waits until Dean’s done.

“Classy, huh?” Dean comments, blinking teary eyes.

“You are many things, Dean, but I don’t believe ‘classy’ could be considered one of them.”

Annoyingly enough, Dean’s pretty sure that he’s getting a cold. He doesn't get them often- when they were kids, _Sam_ was always the one who got sick, which strikes Dean as pretty ironic now. He’s not hungry, but Becky starts getting all antsy when he won’t eat, so he picks at the plainest food there is or chokes back shitty-ass nutrient shakes.

Sam and Jess come to visit the day before their vacation and fuss over him lovingly, like they’re practicing for the first time their kid gets sick.

“Dude, it’s a cold,” Dean says the fourth time Sam asks if he’s  _sure_ he's feeling okay. He’s probably being a little more snappy than is completely fair, but his hands are hurting like a bitch- his head too- and the painkillers aren’t touching it. “I can handle a runny nose. Enjoy Paris and buy me a crappy Eiffel Tower fridge magnet.”

Dean returns their concern by wondering out loud if Jess is okay to fly, as she’s starting to look like she swallowed a small planet. She hits him on the arm a few times and Sam assures him they’ve cleared it with her doctor. They promise to return with the requested crappy souvenir, and they leave to go home and pack.

Cas visits on Valentine’s Day, but he doesn’t stay for long- Dean’s never been big on that sappy crap, and Cas has to be up early to catch his flight to Colorado. Cas doesn’t fuss over him like Sam does, but he does make Dean promise to phone him if anything happens.

“You’d think I was the first person on Earth to get a sore throat,” Dean grumbles, but he says ‘yes’ so that Cas will stop looking at him with those huge, concerned eyes. Despite how gross Dean knows he looks, Cas kisses him goodbye.

Being in bed at three in the afternoon brings back all kinds of unpleasant reminders, but at least now the curtains are open and Dean’s sitting up. He uses his laptop a lot on the first day, but after a while, the glare from the screen starts to hurt his eyes. He switches to reading instead, but he keeps getting headaches, and they make it hard to focus.

The staff are monitoring him closely, but Dean’s not being totally truthful about how he’s feeling. He’s not _lying,_ he’s just… phrasing things in a way that avoids triggering unwanted concern. After all, he’s always had a cough, so why does he need to mention that it’s gotten worse? It’ll get better again eventually, and there’s not much they can do in the meantime. Being poked and prodded and stripped and weighed will just make him feel worse, so he resolves to try and sleep it off.

Dean’s so tired that he wants to lie down and black out for the next two years, but it’s easier said than done. He sleeps and wakes, unexpectedly hurled into consciousness by coughing fits. He tries to muffle the coughs into his pillow, not wanting to draw attention, but his whole body heaves as it tries to clear the crap from his lungs. It feels like treading water in a lake, like he’s half-submerged so that every inhalation brings him an equal blend of air and liquid. He wants to sleep, wants to make it all go away faster, but it’s not working.

Dean wakes and finds he doesn’t know what time of day it is, that he can’t remember _which_ day it is. He slips back into unconsciousness without warning and, when he next comes to, he can’t remember if he’s slept or not. He doesn’t know how long he’s been awake for, and he can’t even say for certain that he _is_ awake. His breath sounds like twigs catching on a metal drain cover, his head still pounding and his thoughts growing fuzzier by the minute. If he could only sleep, then he’d be able to think properly. He just needs to sleep.

“Dean?” somebody calls. Dean doesn’t know if he’s dreaming or not, but he tries to reply anyway, to tell them to leave him alone. The words are cut off, caught in a bubble of thick, gluey air that lodges in his throat and forces him to try and cough it up.

“Dean?” the voice comes again, and somebody clicks his overhead light on. Dean closes his eyes instantly, his body shaking with the effort of trying to stop coughing. He turns his face into the pillow but firm hands take his head and turn it back over.

“Fuck,” the voice hisses. “Fucking Hell, Dean, you fucking idiot.” A sharp, painful noise rings in Dean’s head, and he winces. He realises after a few seconds that whoever’s in the room with him has hit the Emergency Call button by his bed.

“I’m fine,” Dean says, opening his eyes, but his voice is hoarse and the words are thick.

“Your lips are purple,” the person- _Ruby_ \- says. “Do you know what that means, genius? It means oxygen deprivation. Damnit, I _told_ Becky you had something worse than just a cold. Why the hell would you hide this from us?”

Man, there’s a lot of questions there. Dean closes his eyes again.

“Oh, no, cowboy,” she says, her hands tight on his shoulders. “No sleeping for you.”

Dean hears the door slam open. “What’s going on?” someone asks.

“I think it might be pneumonia,” Ruby replies, urgency in her voice.

“I’ll call 911,” the other voice says, and a hand is pressed to his forehead.

“You’re burning up, you total fucking idiot,” Ruby hisses.

“Like you care,” he mumbles.

“Maybe I do,” she says. “Maybe I’d like you to open your goddamn eyes. Think you could give that a go?”

“Bitch,” he replies faintly, but he forces his eyelids open. He can see Ruby only a couple of inches way- she’s sitting next to Ruby, another Ruby on the other side of the room, one standing by the door, one turning to face him and smiling as blood starts to drip from her eye sockets and, somewhere in the distance, Dean hears brakes squealing-

Dean lets out a moan, low in the back of this throat, and somebody runs a hand through his hair.

“I know, sweetheart,” Ellen’s voice says. “We’re gonna get you some help real soon.”

There are too many people crowding around Dean’s bed. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t want it, needs _space_. His skin is so hot, like it’s on fire, like he’s burning from the inside just like mom burned from the outside just like

and now there is someone pressing a cool compress to his head and speaking but he cannot make it out because it is all too much too loud and there are words and noises and sirens

sirens as the fire crackled in the distance and sirens as he dragged his body from the car and sirens now hear them feel them _feel it_

someone sliding hands under his back (take your brother outside) moving him onto something else (mom please no god no mom no) something cool still pressing at his face _don’t touch my face don’t touch me_

“It’s just an oxygen mask Dean,” a man’s voice says. “It’ll help you, I promise. It won’t hurt.”

 _don't touch me I SAID DON’T TOUCH ME_ people holding his arms down hands back and there’s plastic pressing to his cheeks and somebody carding fingers through his hair and somebody touches a hand to the back of his neck and _don’t you dare you bastard only he’s allowed to do that_ and

nothing

nothing

shouting bright lights blurring movement more shouting plastic pressing him down holding him back and then

nothing

quieter now calmer the beep of a machine nearby why do machines always beep don’t the nurses get annoyed with the constant beep beep beep he would get annoyed yes he would  
and the mask still on his face like a demon pressing grubby hands to his lips to keep him bound inside his broken shell and

“Do you know where you are, sir?”

_no_

No, he doesn’t.

“You’re in the hospital, Mr Winchester. If you can hear me, can you squeeze my hand?”

Soft flesh in the gap between his fingers. Dean clutches at it.

“Good, that’s great. Do you know why you’re here? No, don’t try and answer- squeeze for yes, that’s all I want you to do.”

Dean does not squeeze. Everything is grainy, far-away. He is not here, not really.

_I was real once_

“Okay, then I’ll tell you. Your carers noticed that you were very low on oxygen, so they called us and had you brought in. You have severe pneumonia, Dean, and we’re not sure how you’re going to respond to treatment just yet. I’ve got to be honest with you here- the odds are stacked against you. But you’re a fighter, right? You’re going to stay with us?”

_He kissed me and I knew I was real_

Squeeze.

“That’s my man. We’ve got you on oxygen and on a lot of drugs, and hopefully they should help. If nothing else, your SATS levels are back up, so the symptoms of the oxygen deprivation should be gone really soon. That means if you were getting hallucinations or if you were confused or anything like that, it’ll hopefully get better. Does that make sense?”

Squeeze.

“Good. I’ll be back to check on you real soon, okay?”

Squeeze.

“Take care, Dean. Keep those lungs pumping.”

Lucidity is shy in its return. The hallucinations have cleared but Dean still weaves in and out of sleep, the borders no longer as clear as they once were. His thoughts are slow and unwilling to rise to the surface, breathing like plunging a knife into his chest. There’s a drip in his arm- more than one, actually- and whilst the mask is gone from his face, plastic nubs scratch at the inside of his nose. A machine by his bed picks out the steady tiptoe of his heart.

“Sir- sir, if you’re not family-”

“I’m as good as. Please, I need to-”

Dean persuades his head to roll towards the door. There’s a nurse- two nurses, now- trying to persuade somebody to leave. They aren’t having much success.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Winchester really is very ill.”

“Which is why I need to see him.”

“We can’t-”

Dean tries to speak, but all that comes out is a heavy, laboured cough, grating at his throat like spiteful fingernails. The nurses snap their heads towards him and he waves his hand, the tube in his arm clanking against the bed.

“Cas,” he manages to get out as the nurses rush to his side. “Cas.”

Cas is there, his hand finding Dean’s. “Dean,” Cas says, cupping Dean’s head with his other hand. Dean relaxes into the touch, a tired smile pulling at his cracked lips.

“Cas can stay,” Dean rasps. The nurses look at each other uncertainly, but then one shrugs slightly and the other nods.

“You need to come and tell us if anything happens,” one tells Cas firmly. “The machine beeps, his pain gets worse, anything at all you’re not sure about- tell us right away.”

“Yes,” Cas says after a second, clearly distracted.

“Mr Novak-”

“Yes, I understand,” Cas says, and after one more uncertain look, the nurses leave them alone. Cas drags the visitors’ chair over to sit by Dean, holding one of Dean’s hands in both of his.

Dean’s room is dimly lit, though the corridor outside is dark. “What time is it?” he asks. His voice doesn’t sound like his own.

“About three fifteen,” Cas replies.

“Day?”

“Mon- Tuesday, now. Tuesday the 19th. You were brought about twelve hours’ ago.”

Dean evaluates this, before realising that he has no idea whether he thought it had been more or less time. His hands hurt. His chest hurts. It is hard to think.

“Sam and Jess have been told,” Cas says, “but the first flight they can get out doesn’t leave for another nine hours. They’re hoping to get here for midnight.”

Dean grumbles unhappily; there’s no point in ruining Sam and Jess’ trip. “Who phoned them?”

“The care home- Sam’s written down as your first point of contact. He phoned me immediately afterwards.”

“Why?” Dean complains.

“Because he wanted advice, and because he knew I’d want to know.”

“You’re supposed to be in Colorado.”

“You’re not supposed to be in hospital.”

“Oops,” Dean says.

Cas smiles briefly, but there’s little humour in it. “You flew out early?” Dean says disapprovingly.

“No, I drove.”

It’s an eight hour drive from Denver to Kansas, over five hundred miles. “You _drove?_ ”

“There were no flights soon enough.”

“ _You_ drove?”

“I’ve had better journeys,” Cas admits.

“What did your boss say about you leaving early?”

“I should probably inform her, yes.”

“Uh, _yeah,_ ” Dean says, before he’s interrupted by another series of coughs. They’re vicious, hacking things that sound dirty and dripping. He turns his head away from Cas and waits for the spell to pass. It takes a long, long time.

“Why didn’t you tell anybody, Dean?” Cas asks. His words are quiet, would be lost in the background noise of machinery if it was anyone but Dean listening. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because his hands were starting to behave like hands should, because Cas said ‘move in’ and Dean said ‘yes’, because he can make himself breakfast and people come to him for help and his kid brother is gonna get married and he’s gonna be there. Because he was so, so close; because he was brushing his fingertips against normality, and he did not want anybody to tell him to sit down and stop reaching.

“I spent a long time being sick,” Dean says. “I didn’t want to-”

More coughs, his breath cracking and crackling. There isn’t an inch of him that doesn’t hurt.  _Anna died of pneumonia_ , Dean thinks. The sharpness of the reminder is somehow dulled, like being struck through layers of thick clothing. He wonders what dying is like, if the pain will get worse. Dean would ask, but he knows that Cas would tell him the truth, and he’s not sure he wants to hear it.

“You stupid man,” Cas says, bringing Dean’s hand to his lips and mouthing it into his palm, the words like feathers as they brush across his hand. “You stupid, stubborn, self-denying man.”

“That’s me,” Dean says, and he though he means to grin he forgets to. The edges of his vision are starting to go again. “I think I probably need to sleep now.”

“I’ll stay with you.”

“Promise?” Dean says, and the way his voice breaks a little on the word has nothing to do with his cough.

“I promise,” Cas says gently.

“I’m scared, Cas,” Dean says before he can stop himself. There are not tears in his eyes, they are not threatening to spill down his cheeks. He is only gripping Cas this tightly because his hands do not ask for permission. “I don’t wanna die. I don’t wanna go.”

“I know,” Cas says. He doesn’t promise Dean that he won’t; Cas has never made a promise he cannot keep. He stands suddenly, dropping Dean’s hand. He pulls at the sheets of Dean’s bed, and Dean gets the idea. He tries to shift over, but his tubes tie him down and his bones are getting tired of holding up muscles that would so much rather be let go.

Cas holds him like he always has, high and close- though he’s careful not to get in the way of the oxygen pumping into Dean’s nose, the fluids sneaking into his skin.

“I will stay with you,” Cas says again, his breath a kiss without lips, “so you should stay too. Talk to me. Tell me how bad my car is. Tell me which one I should buy instead.”

Dean would like to shake his head, but he thinks that’s a little ambitious. He rests his forehead against Cas’ instead, eyelids fluttering closed. “Keep it,” he mutters. “You can keep it.”

Dean hears a sound, a small, muffled noise, and he does not open his eyes because he does not want to see Cas cry.

“I don’t wanna talk,” Dean says, words slow and thick. “Why don’t you talk to me instead? I like it when you talk.”

His thoughts are skipping all around the place, light and liable to disappear at a moment’s notice. He tries to reach out and grab one, but it slips from his grasp and straight out of his mouth.

“You make me feel real, Cas,” he says, mumbling the words. “Keep me real.”

“Okay,” Cas says, and Dean hears him swallow heavily after it. “What do you want me to talk about?"

“Anything,” Dean mumbles. “Stay with me. Anything.”

After a few seconds, Cas begins to talk. He doesn’t speak in English, and Dean is glad- this way, he doesn’t have to try and pick out the meaning. He can just lie in Cas’ arms and listen to the sound of his voice, a deep rumble like lightning-struck smoke, wrapping its way around Dean’s body and keeping him safe, holding him together; whole.

He thinks it’s Italian, but he wouldn’t know. He feels himself sinking into sleep, but it’s not like before, where he was yanked suddenly from consciousness without any choice or warning. This is like stepping into a warm bath, walking into the ocean and spreading your arms _._ He is stopped for a moment by the mention of his name- his full name, _Dean Winchester,_ finding its way into Cas’ tangle of delicate, unknown words.

 _Dean Winchester._ Dean knows who he is. Cas does too.

As Cas speaks the name, he drags his knuckle down the nape of Dean’s neck, a comfort-blanket of a touch. When Dean closes his eyes, it is with the acknowledgement that at least he _has_ eyes. He is here. For now, if nothing else, if never again, he is real.

* * *

_The TV is on but nothing is showing, a rainbow of static shuddering its way up and down._

_“Dean?” a voice says. Dean groans._

_“I_ know _the TV isn’t working,” he says. “I can’t make it work, okay? Dad didn’t pay.”_

 _“I_ know _he didn’t pay,” the voice parrots back. Sam’s barely five years old, and Dean already hears so many of his own words in Sam's speech. He’s gotta start swearing less. “I wasn’t gonna ask about that.”_

_“What, then?”_

_“How come Daddy’s mad?”_

_Dean keeps his face impassive. “What makes you think he was mad?”_

_“He yelled at you, and then he slammed the door.”_

_“You heard that, huh?” Dean says, rubbing a hand over his face. He was hoping Sam had been asleep._

_“He sounded really mad.”_

_“It’s my fault. Nothing you did wrong.”_

_“What did you do?”_

_“Jeez, Sammy, would you leave it?”_

_“He said you were useless.”_

_“I said leave it!” Dean snaps. He doesn’t need reminding about that._

_“I just wanna know what you did,” Sammy says quietly, his eyes wide and lip trembling, and shit, Dean’s got nothing against that. He sighs and pats the sofa next to him. Sam scuttles over and sits by his side, looking up expectantly._

_“You know the tree outside?”_

_“Uh-huh.”_

_“I tried climbing it,” Dean admits._

_“You said I wasn’t allowed to climb it!” Sam says, outraged._

_“You’re not,” Dean replies instantly. The tree outside is tall, one of the tallest he’s ever seen, and whilst its many branches are sorely tempting to a nine year old's hands and feet, they’re spindly and difficult to predict. Dean knows this, because an hour and a half ago, he put his weight on one and it snapped._

_He had hit the ground with a thud, the air pushed out of him like stamping on a juice carton. He didn’t fall far, but he fell far enough for it to hurt. He landed awkwardly, twisting his ankle underneath him so hard that he let out an embarrassingly loud shriek._

_He had gotten up as quickly as possible, but Dad was already slamming the motel door open._

_“What the hell was that?”_

_“Nothing,” Dean said immediately._

_“Don’t lie to me, Dean. What was it?”_

_“I fell,” he had admitted._

_“From where? The tree? Are you okay?” Dad said it like concern was a long-forgotten language, his eyes glassy as he tried to remember which words to use. He didn’t look good. Dean doesn_ ’ _t know when his father last slept, or showered, or shaved. Dean made him some toast yesterday morning, and he said thank you, but it was still there, untouched, when Dean went to bed._

_“I hurt my ankle, but I think it’s okay.”_

_“Can you stand on it?”_

_Dean did so, wincing. “Yeah.”_

_“Then you’re fine,” he’d breathed, relieved. His eyes had narrowed. “Jesus, Dean, what the hell were you thinking?”_

_“I-”_

_“Didn’t I tell you to look after Sammy?”_

_Dad’s been really busy for the last few days. He’s hunting a bad man- a really bad man, a killer. He’s been in the kitchen all day- for three days now, actually- pushing pins into maps and spreading out letters and photos and notes in front of him. People are in danger, and Dad needs to focus on finding the killer to keep them all okay, so he needs Dean to stay quiet and out of the way and to look after Sammy._

_“I have been,” Dean insists. “I cooked him food, and I made sure he brushed his teeth, and I-”_

_“And if you broke your leg? Then what?”_

_Dean hesitates. “I don’t know._

_“You think you can cook for Sammy if you can’t stand up?”_

_“No.”_

_“What if someone breaks in and tries to hurt him? How are you gonna defend him when you can’t even_ walk?”

_“I can’t. I wouldn’t be able to.”_

_“So you’d be useless, right?”_

_“I-”_

_“The answer is ‘yes’, Dean. You go and get yourself hurt like that, you’re good for nothing, you hear me? You might as well not even be_ _here,” Dad spat._

_“I know. I’m sorry.”_

_“You gotta be more careful, Dean.”_

_“Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”_

_“Then get back in there and look after your brother.”_

_Dean had scurried inside as fast as he could, and Dad slammed the door so hard it shook the wall._

_“I fell,” Dean says now. Sam’s eyes go wide and he grabs at Dean’s sleeve._

_“Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”_

_“I’m fine,” Dean brushes off. “It was a dumb thing to do.”_

_“I don’t get why Daddy was mad.”_

_“’Cause if I get hurt, I can’t take care of you, idiot.”_

_Sam doesn’t reply. He’s screwing his face up, squinting the way he does when Dean tells him there are no Fruit Loops left, and he’s trying to remember how many bowls he’s eaten to figure out whether or not that’s the truth._

_“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Sam decides eventually. “I could look after you.”_

_“Shut up, no you couldn’t.”_

_“I_ could, _” Sam insists. “ I make real good sandwiches.” Sam’s ‘sandwiches’ involve putting sugar cubes between pieces of bread and hammering at them with his fists._

_“You wouldn’t care that I couldn’t pick you up?” Dean says, amused by the idea. “That I couldn’t make you food?”_

_“Nuh-uh,” Sam says, “’cause that’s not why I like you.”_

_“No?”_

_“Nope. I like you ‘cause you tell me stories and ‘cause you’re funny and brave and you don’t tell Daddy when I spill stuff or do silly things. You’d still do all of those things so it’d still be okay.”_

_“Sure, sure.”_

_“I mean it!” Sam says with the indignant fury that only a five year old can truly master._

_“Does that mean I don’t have to make you grilled cheese?”_

_Sam’s eyes get even wider. “Do we have grilled cheese?”_

_Dean chuckles and ruffles Sam’s hair. “I’ll look.” He thinks he remembers seeing a slice of cheese left in the packet, pushed to the back of the fridge._

_He swings himself off the sofa and, from nowhere, agony pierces him like a hot poker. He cries out and when he looks down, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. Cartoon-bright white bone has gouged its way through the skin of his left leg, a good three inches jutting out just above his knee with scarlet blood soaking through his jeans. He tries to touch a hand to it but his hands are shaking, shaking so hard that he can’t even touch his own skin, and the air reverberates with a vicious crack and he knows that his other leg has broken too, but he can’t feel anything. The pain has gone, and he cannot feel anything._

_The air is filled with the scent of burning rubber and he can hear sirens, somewhere far away- sirens or alarms, he can’t tell. He’s waiting for pain, waiting for anything, waiting for tangled metal against his flesh and glass snowflakes refusing to melt in his hair and for his left leg to move, gotta find Sam, Sam’s by his side pulling at him with terrified hands but where’s Sam? Find Sam find Sam find Sam-_

_“Don’t go,” somebody says, and Sam’s lips are not moving. “You asshole, you goddamn asshole, I wouldn’t leave you. Don’t you leave me, don’t you dare.”_

You might as well not even exist.  You’d be useless. Left leg, move.

_“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”_

Think of how things were before.

 _Car manufacturers, Dean thinks, look backwards in order to move forwards. That does not mean they copy the original nut for nut and bolt for bolt; that does not mean they cannot learn, that they cannot grow. Dean looks at the nine year old and he thinks,_ there is worse to come. _Silk ghosts over his face and lips press to the back of his neck and a woman laughs as she burns sausages on Christmas Day and he amends it:_ there is _more_ to come.

_“Dean? Dean, can you hear me?”_

_Dean is looking at himself, at his awkwardly shaped nine year old body, an embryo cramped inside a seed that has been given the watering can and told to deal with things itself. The blood comes and goes like flipping a holographic ruler backwards and forwards, but it does not matter. It does not matter, because such a thing as form is temporary. What he is here, now, this is what matters. He is spirit, he is soul, he cannot be destroyed or damaged or touched. He is unreachable yet able to reach out; he is unshakeable yet ever-present. He is real. That cannot be undone._

_“Wake up, Dean,” and that is Sam’s voice now but still not_ this _Sam. “It’s time to wake up. Please, Dean, just wake up.”_

 _Dean closes his eyes with the intention of opening them in another place. The last thing he sees is the five year old boy by the side of the nine year old, taking his hand and promising it will be alright. It will be alright._  

* * *

Castiel is making a habit of being ordered out of Dean’s bed by medical personnel.

When Dean’s eyes open, he finds Cas curled up in the chair, his hand resting on the bed. The split-second of peace Dean feels looking at him his broken when he realises something has been pushed down his throat, something too-big and determined to choke him, to send him back under. He gasps, arms scrabbling at his face and alarms jumping into frantic life.

A lot of people are saying Dean’s name, a lot of people crowding around him and touching him. Someone is holding his hands down and he thrashes desperately, but they keep hold.

“Dean, stop,” someone is saying, firm and authoritative. “You need to calm down.”

He doesn’t recognise the voice, but he recognises some of the others- Cas, Sam, Jess. Their hands are on him too, soothing him like an animal caught in a trap, and he lets his body slump back to the bed.

“Good,” the nurse says approvingly. Dean doesn’t remember seeing her before, and when he looks around the room, he realises this is not where he fell asleep. He looks back to the nurse questioningly and she steps back, letting his hands go.

“Hello, Dean,” she says with a smile. “We weren’t expecting to see you again.”

Dean glares at her. _I don’t go down that easy._

“You’re in the ICU right now,” the nurse continues .”You were moved here five days ago.”

How the fuck has it been five days? He tries to argue, temporarily forgetting there’s a goddamn tube in his throat. The nurse hears the soft choking sounds he makes and hastily explains.

“The reason you can’t talk at the moment is that we had to intubate you- your lungs got worse, and we had to put you on a ventilator. I’m sorry, I know it’s not much fun. The good news is that the worst is out of the way now. You’re not out of the woods yet, but waking up was three-quarters of the battle. We’ll keep an eye on you, and if everything’s going well, we should be able to switch you back to the mask later today. Is that okay?”

Dean doesn’t know how she expects him to answer, so he settles for glaring again. She chuckles and pats him on the arm.

“I’ll be back soon,” she says. “I’ll leave you to your family. They’ve been here pretty much the whole time.”

 _You don’t say._ Cas has got at least three days’ worth of stubble growth, and Sam looks like he’s been wearing the same shirt for a very long time. Only Jess looks relatively normal, which is explained when she tells Dean that she’s the only one who’s been spending significant portions of time away from the hospital.

“I would have stayed,” she says apologetically, “but these two and the nurses wouldn’t let me. Apparently, pregnant women shouldn’t sleep sitting up in hospital chairs.”

Dean’s definitely in agreement with that; it’s bad enough that Sam and Cas have spent so much of the past five days here. The next few hours pass in a strange, slow fashion, which he sleeps and wakes and coughs his way through. Sam’s actually away getting a cup of coffee when the nurse turns up to remove Dean’s ventilator, but Dean waves her on to go ahead. It’s not a fun thing to experience; he highly doubts it’s any more pleasant to watch.

The nurse gives him a glass of water to sip once it’s out, and Dean does so gratefully, fighting the temptation to gulp it down. Cas stays by his side with one hand resting on the bed, as he has been ever since Dean opened his eyes. He’s barely taken his eyes off Dean for a second, like Dean might disappear if he does. Dean finishes his drink and looks at Cas.

“This is the last time I’m gonna tell you,” he croaks out. “You need more hobbies.”

After that, telling day and night apart becomes a lot easier. His dreams stop bleeding into his waking thoughts, and whilst he’s still coughing like his life depends on it (because it kind of does, actually), the nurses are pleased with his progress. After they move him out of the ICU, he has a constant stream of visitors. Benny shows up and tells Dean he’s proud of him; Ruby brings Ava to visit, then Pam brings Channing, then Jody brings Jo. Ellen and Chuck come separately, and while Chuck only stays for a few, twitchy minutes, Ellen brings him a bag filled with books she picked up from his room. Bobby turns up, spends ten minutes calling him an idiot, and then gives him a very unexpected hug.

One morning, Dean awakens to hear somebody talking on the phone in hushed tones.

“- a few days yet,” Cas is saying, “but they’re using ‘when’ now, not ‘if’. I know. Thank you. Yes, he does. We-” Cas notices Dean looking at him. “He’s just woken up. Yes, alright. Goodbye, Inias.”

“ _Inias?_ ” Dean says incredulously once Cas hangs up. “When the hell did that become a thing?”

“A few hours after you were admitted,” Cas says. “I was driving here and I rang him on my car phone. I needed somebody to talk to, but I didn’t want to further worry Sam or Jess.”

“Bet that was a fun call,” Dean says. Your long-lost brother phones in the middle of the night to tell you that his gay, disabled lover (who you didn’t know about) is doing his best to die of the illness that killed your sister (nice reminder there)- do you have time to talk?

“He’s a very kind man,” Cas says- and shit, Dean _must_ have been sick if Cas is saying nice things about his family. “He’s been a great help. We talk several times a day. He was ecstatic when he heard you'd woken up.”

“And when were you gonna tell me all that?”

“When it became relevant,” Cas says. “You’ve had a lot to cope with, Dean.”

It’s a fair point. Cas calls Inias every day, and a couple of times he hands the phone over for Dean to say hi. Any worries he’d had about Cas getting back in touch with his family are quickly dissipated; Inias seems about as malevolent as a garden snail. There’s even talk of him coming down to meet them at some point, which sounds good to Dean.

After another two weeks, Dean is cleared to go back to the home. After another two months, he moves in with Castiel.

In some ways, it’s kind of sad. Jo actually tears up, though she still manages to hit him when he teases her for it. Ellen, Pam and Jody all make him promise to come back and visit, Ash makes him swear to take care of the laptop, and Ruby hands over a colourfully wrapped package.

“The hell is this?” he frowns.

“It’s from Ava. I took her shopping and we picked that out for you.”

Dean rips the paper off to reveal a small, hardback book: _101 Things To Do With Cake._

“You suck, you know that?” he tells Ava. “You really, _really_ suck.”

The look in Ava’s eyes can only be described as victorious. He promises to write (well, to get Cas to write), and then he’s facing Ruby again.

“Try not to die,” she advises. “I won’t always be around to save your damsel-in-distress ass.”

“And as much as that hurts me, I’m sure I’ll find a way to cope.”

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

“Take care, okay?” she says awkardly, gripping his shoulder and giving him a slight smile. He returns it.

“Same to you.”

It’s a strange moment, one which is broken when Ruby adds “And, you know, if your brother’s marriage doesn’t work out-”

“Goodbye, Ruby,” he says, loudly.

He sees Ash, Channing, Chuck and a handful of other people before he goes. Neither Meg nor Lilith show up to say goodbye; Dean can live with that.

Cas ended up buying the bungalow he had his eye on, and he actually _made_ money from it- his old house, being the beautiful place it is, got snapped up near-instantly. Cas insists that he’s not sad to see the back of it. He told Dean that it was good to have a place _he_ chose- that they chose together, actually, as Dean went out to visit a couple of times before they bought it. Cas has been living there for three weeks now, and he doesn’t seem to dread going home as much as he used to.

Dean put some money towards the house, and he’s planning to pay off a good portion of the mortgage eventually, but nearly all of their furniture is Cas’. Dean doesn’t have much in the way of belongings- his laptop, his books, a few more personal things like photos and Cas’ bookmark- and it only takes one trip to move all of his stuff from the care home to the new house.

Sam and Jess turn up in the afternoon to look around. Jess is _ridiculously_ pregnant; she’s due any day now, and she’s very much hoping that day comes sooner rather than later. Sam is… handling it. ‘Pistol-whipped’ is the term Dean would use, but he’s sensible enough _not_ to say that around the happy couple.

There are a few steps by the door, but they’ve fitted a ramp over them, and the bed is low enough that Dean can handle the transfer easily. Because, you know, he has a new bed now. A _double_ bed. Which is his and Cas’, and isn’t going to get tucked back into a sofa come morning or abandoned when he goes back to the home this evening. This is permanent. It’s a scary thought- before the accident, Dean never spent more than a couple of months in one place at a time- but it’s the good kind of scary.

That night, when Dean pulls the cord by the bed and turns the light out, there’s something that won’t stop bugging him. He’s lying with his arms looped around Cas’ neck, head resting against his chest, when he decides to just go ahead and ask.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“You know when I was in hospital?”

He feels Cas’ body stiffen against his. “Yes?” Cas says, a little too tightly. Neither of them like to talk about that.

“What were you saying?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were speaking in Spanish or whatever-“

“It was Italian.”

“Fine, Italian. What were you saying? In English, I mean.”

Cas is silent. “It was a long time ago, Dean.”

“You’re saying you can’t remember?”

“I remember,” Cas says.

“But you’re not gonna tell me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Cas doesn’t answer. Dean can feel himself getting pissed off, and he doesn’t want to ruin a good day by getting mad. “You know what? Forget it. Night, Cas.”

He doesn’t get a reply. With a sigh, he closes his eyes and waits for sleep. Before he can get there, though, somebody begins talking.

“If I were being selfish,” Cas says, his voice low but loud in the otherwise-silent room, “I would tell you not to give up. I would beg you to stay with me- I would _order_ you not to let go. As it is, you already blame yourself far too much for things you cannot control, so I’ll say this instead: I love you.” Dean’s breath catches in his throat for reasons that have nothing to do with his lungs. Cas swallows, shifts slightly, and keeps on speaking.

“I would love you if you could stand and walk, and I would love you if you could barely blink. Your body is no more than a vessel for your soul, and I have never seen a soul as bright as yours. I have loved it as I have loved you- ever since I first saw you- and I will love you still when we are no more than ash on the wind and memories in the minds of ghosts. I will not tell you not to go. I will not say you cannot leave. I can only tell you that I love you, Dean Winchester,”- and there he runs a knuckle down Dean’s the back of neck, a silent link back to that cramped, otherworldly hospital bed- “and that I will never forget you.  For me, you will always exist. That much, I can- and do- promise.”

Silence again, now. “It probably sounded better in Italian,” Cas says, sounding embarrassed.

“You remembered all that?” Dean says faintly. Whatever he had been expecting, that was not it.

“I don’t see how I could ever forget that night," Cas says- and then "Though I must admit that, in the following days, I became somewhat less rational.”

He sounds ashamed. Dean remembers words trickling into a scene they did not belong in: _you asshole, you goddamn asshole, I wouldn’t leave you._ Castiel has proven before that he can only put aside his own feelings for so long when it comes to the people he loves. 

“Thanks for telling me,” Dean eventually says.

“You deserved to know.”

Dean goes to nod, realises it’s pointless, and presses his head a little closer to Cas’ chest instead. “Night, Cas,” he says again.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

It takes another four minutes of lying in the dark before he brings himself to just fucking _say it_.

“I love you too. Obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“Obviously,” Dean confirms. “I mean, have you _met_ you? You’re pretty hard not to fall in love with.”

“In that case, I had better keep my distance from your brother,” Cas deadpans. Dean smacks him good-naturedly.

“Go the fuck to sleep, Castiel.”

Cas pulls Dean a little closer. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmurs.

It feels good, Dean thinks, to look forward to waking up.


	7. Epilogue

**_August 2008_ **

“If you run over my shoes, I’ll kill you.”

“If you mess up my wheels, I’ll kill _you,_ ” Dean contends. Jess considers this and nods.

“If you could park right behind Sam so that he can’t turn and run, that’d be great.”

“He’s not gonna run,” Dean says patiently. “Not until I tell him that I’ve lost the rings, that is. Okay, bad timing, bad timing,” he adds hastily. “No jokes. Sorry.”

“Why am I marrying into this family?” Jess whines. She looks stunning, as Dean’s already told her- whilst he’s supressing about sixteen different ‘virgin bride’ jokes, white is very much her colour. She decided against getting a huge gown, and the long, closely-fitted dress  she picked instead was a very good choice on her part.

There are bridesmaids flitting all around Jess, and guests are already collecting in the garden. As the best man, it’s apparently Dean’s job to make sure Sam has his shit together, but they’ve started treating him as a kind of messenger boy- they’re determined that, as tradition demands, Sam won’t see Jess until her father’s walking her down the altar. That means that Dean’s spent his morning relaying messages about everything from the flower arrangements to what they’re having for dinner tonight, and frankly, he’s getting sick of it.

“Has Cas still-”

“Yes, Cas has still got Oscar,” Dean interrupts. “We’ll hang onto him until after the ceremony, don’t you worry."

“Thanks, Dean,” Jess says, flashing him a tight smile. Oscar Dean Winchester was born on the 7th of April, after eight hours of labour during which Jess nearly broke Sam’s hand. She was right about the baby’s sex, but Sam was too busy tearing up to care. They named him ‘Oscar’ after Jessica’s father, and ‘Dean’ after… well. Oscar has his mother’s eyes and, unfortunately for the kid, Dean strongly suspects he’s inherited Sam’s hair. Dean calls him Ozzy and plays him Black Sabbath when Sam and Jess aren’t around.

“You should be with Sam,” Jess says. “It’s nearly time.”

“Gotcha,” Dean says, and he grins. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

Dean doesn’t remember ever going to a wedding before, so he feels a little like he got thrown in at the deep end, but somehow it all works out. The ushers all do as they're meant to, no one drops the rings, and nobody suddenly bursts through the doors in objection (Dean had had his concerns about Becky). Ozzy’s on his best behaviour, Jess and Sam say their vows without stumbling once, and Sam cries. Again. When they come out of the church, Dean throws a handful of petals directly into Sam’s face for good measure.

There are about four different kinds of salads at the buffet, all of which Dean looks at distastefully.

“Lettuce,” he tells Oscar, “is not natural.”

“What do you mean, it’s not natural?” Sam says. “It’s like, the most natural thing there is.”

In theory, he’s sitting next to Dean, but his and Jess’ seats have stayed fairly empty- they keep being pulled from crowd to crowd by hoards of people desperate to wish them well or impart advice. Dean’s on babysitting duty, Ozzy balanced on his lap.

“Nah,” Dean says. “It’s green. Never trust green food,” he advises Ozzy, who blinks up at him.

“You’re such a great role model,” Sam says.

“I’m the best godfather there is.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “There’s other food too, you know. I think there are some canapés that have bacon on top.”

“Can you get me some?”

“Do it yourself.”

“But I’m a sad and lonely crippled man.”

“No, you’re a lazy idiot.” The woman sitting opposite Dean looks at Sam in horror. “You’ve got hands, Dean. Use them.”

“Bitch.”

“Not around Ozzy,” Sam hisses, panicked- and then adds “Jerk” out of the side of his mouth.

Dean grins. “It’s okay, Cas is bringing me something.”

Sure enough, after Sam’s disappeared, Cas arrives holding two plates. “Were there bacon things?” Dean calls.

“There _were,_ ” Cas says, setting a plate down in front of him. “Now there’s an empty plate.”

“See?” Dean says, showing Ozzy one of the canapés. “This is why we love your uncle. Uncle-in-law? Kinda?” Dean shrugs. “Let’s just go with ‘the bacon guy’.”

“I would really rather we didn’t.”

Dean tries one of the bacon things and finds there’s cheese and pastry in there too, so it’s really a good deal all around. He accidentally catches the eye of the bridesmaid sitting a few seats over- one of Jess’ friends, Dean doesn’t know her name- and nods and smiles.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m Lisa.”

“Dean,” he introduces himself. “This is Cas.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lisa says. “I’d introduce my boyfriend, but he’s…” She cranes her neck and looks around. “Getting drunk, apparently. It was a gorgeous ceremony, wasn’t it?”

“Guess so,” Dean agrees. “Good job, uh, bridesmaid-ing.”

Lisa laughs. “Good job best man-ing,” she says approvingly. “You’re Sam’s brother, right?”

“Caught me. How do you know Jess?”

“We went to the same yoga place,” Lisa says. “She moved on, but I stayed, and now I work there.”

“Follow your dreams, huh?”

“Beats retail,” she says. “Do you work?”

“Yeah, actually,” Dean says. “I tell people their cars suck for a living.”

“He’s a car advice specialist,” Cas supplies, “and he’s very good at it.”

“I run a website with a woman named Charlie,” Dean explains when Lisa looks confused. “She does the tech stuff, I do the car stuff, and there are a couple of other people who help out too. We pretty much just give people advice on cars. How to buy them, maintain them, repair them, sell them, whatever.”

“Does it pay well?”

“Could be worse,” Dean shrugs. “We don’t charge that much, but we make money in other ways- we’ve got links with a few companies that offer discounts and then pass the saved money onto us, that kind of thing. It’s early days, but it’s looking good.”

It had been the people on the car forum who gave him the idea. _“I wish everyone was as helpful as you,”_ somebody had written. “ _I’d seriously be willing to pay for your help, and I know other people would too._ ” Before Dean knew it, Charlie was drafting the skeleton of a website, and Dean was looking into fundraisers to get their idea off the ground.

He doesn’t tell Lisa about his other job, the one that gives him an extra cash injection once a week. He has the car forum to thank for that too- a reply to a post from another ex-motorhead coming to terms with a spinal cord injury had a stranger messaging Dean a few days later, offering him a column on her website.

It’s a depression-slash-self-help thing that answers messages and questions from people who want somebody to talk to, publishing them with the best advice they know how to give (plus a long list of useful links and phone numbers). There are a bunch of different people who help out, but the majority of the bereavement, illness and injury related messages come Dean’s way. Cas, Sam and Jess know the truth, but nobody else knows the identity of the sympathetic- if slightly brusque- man who seems to ‘get it’ so damn well.

“Are you part of the website?” Lisa asks Cas, who shakes his head.

“I’m a tax accountant, but I’m training to be a teacher,” he says.

“Good luck,” she whistles. “You always wanted to teach?”

“No, my brother gave me the idea.” Cas and Inias talk a couple of times a week, and in a few weeks’ time Inias is travelling down to stay with them for a while. Dean is torn between excitement about meeting Inias, and irritation that he’s going to have to go a whole five days without sex; being caught by Cas’ kind-hearted, pure-souled older brother really is not worth the risk.

“Cool,” Lisa nods. “What subject are you interested in teaching?”

“Languages- Spanish, probably, but I could do others. There’s a school nearby that caters exclusively to disabled or chronically ill children. I’d like to work there.”

Lisa and Cas chat a while longer, and Sam swoops in to reclaim Ozzy. After a while, Dean catches Cas squinting at him.

“You’re quiet,” Cas states.

“Well, the nice lady in the corner’s been staring at me for the last ten minutes,” Dean says. Cas turns to look, not bothering with subtlety, and the woman immediately looks away. After a few seconds, though, her eyes flicker back to Dean. The grimace on her face is not a pleasant one.

Dean is distracted when Cas leans over and kisses him, his hand cupping the back of Dean’s head. It lasts a solid five seconds- pretty weird, considering neither of them are the PDA type. Dean kisses back, because he’s pretty sure that being inappropriate is like half the _point_ of weddings, but he’s still confused. He gestures so at Cas.

“I thought I’d give her something to stare at,” Cas says, with a slight, unapologetic shrug. The woman is now averting her eyes completely, her face beet red. As far as solutions go, Dean’s heard much worse.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he twists around to see Jess. “If you can put Cas down for five minutes, it’s your speech soon.”

“Gotcha. When?”

“Three o’clock,” Jess says. It’s ten to three now, so that gives Dean some time. He nods and she moves off, seeking out Sam and their son.

“If you do car stuff, you should talk to my boyfriend,” Lisa says to Dean. “I think he probably drives the worst car in the world.”

“Nope,” Dean says immediately. “Cas has that covered.”

“You like my car,” Cas sighs, pushing a mouthful of pasta salad into his mouth. The conversation is an old, comfortable one, like a pair of jeans you keep meaning to throw out but can never quite bring yourself to.

“I kind of do,” Dean admits. “It’s like vehicular Stockholm syndrome.”

“It can’t be _that_ bad,” Lisa says comfortingly.

“It’s green.”

“Matt’s is yellow.”

“I am so sorry.” Lisa sniggers, and Dean eats the last canapé on his plate. Say what you want about Sam’s prissy catering choices- whoever he got, they’re good with bacon.

“My car’s better,” Dean comments, brushing crumbs from his suit.

“You drive?”

“Hand control, baby. Goes like a dream.”

“A nightmare, maybe,” Cas grumbles. “Dean does not believe speed limits apply to him.”

Dean still sees Benny every week- PT is very much an on-going thing, and if he wants his hands to stay as good as he’s got them, it probably always be. Dean likes Benny too much to complain. Andrea is pregnant again, and Dean is enjoying hearing his tales of My Pregnant Wife Made Me Buy Grape Kool-Aid At 2AM; Jess had been disappointingly level-headed throughout her own pregnancy.

Dean sees Ellen and Jody occasionally, Ava rarely, and Jo when she feels up to it. She’s still getting sicker, and it hurts to see. It hurts a lot, actually, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it. For now, Jo can still insult him, and make him laugh, and complain when he visits without bringing her something chocolate-based, and Dean focuses on those good things like bright stars in a dark sky. He still sees Tessa regularly, and as much as it may not feel like it, that’s a good thing too. Life is not easy. It is, however, _life_ \- it is his, it is real, and it is so very worth it.

Jess reappears, Sam by her side and Ozzy on her hip. “Yo, bro,” she says, handing him a microphone. “Your time has come.”

Sam has drained of colour. “I’ll be kind,” Dean promises, but he doesn’t think the grin spreading across his face is very reassuring. Sam sits down with Dean on one side and Jess and Ozzy on the other, and Dean taps the microphone a few times. When it seems to be working, he bangs it on the table.

“Sorry, but I can’t exactly stand up,” he says when everybody jumps in shock. He wheels himself back a little to give him a better view of the room and clears this throat. “I’m the best man and brother of this pain-in-the-ass you see before you, so apparently I’ve got to give a speech or something. I don’t really _do_ speeches, but you all know how Sam gets his panties in twist when things don’t go to plan, so I’ll give it my best shot.”

In the audience, people titter and chuckle. Sam looks like he’s about to pass out.

“When Sam was four,” Dean begins, “he wanted to be a princess. No, don’t deny it, I literally heard those words come out of your mouth.”

“I didn’t know what it _meant_ ,” Sam says mournfully to Jess, who shushes him.

“He says he meant ‘prince’, but he says a lot of things. Like how it wasn’t him who clogged the motel bathroom with army men when he was six, and it wasn’t him who let the neighbour’s dog out and ended up getting the _other_ neighbour’s dog pregnant, and it wasn’t him who got so drunk in high school that he ended up passing out in a flowerbed and- you know what? Ask me about that one later, it’s not age-appropriate. Anyway, Sam’ll tell you that none of that was him. Nope. No way.

“So now that we’ve established he’s a lying asshole- whoops, sorry kids, pretend you didn’t hear that- I’ll tell you that Sam doesn’t think he’s a good person. That he doesn’t think he’s made the right choices, and that he doesn’t think he’s a good brother or a good friend, and that he won’t make a good father.” The mood’s more sombre now, laughter dying down and all eyes fixed on Dean.

“Now, I don’t think he’s lying about believing those things. I think he genuinely believes them, and I can’t even begin to say how friggin’ _ridiculous_ that is. My brother is one of the kindest, smartest, most selfless men you will ever meet, and somehow- and I really have no idea how he did this- he found a wife who’s just as good as him. I know, I wouldn’t have thought it was possible either. They’re gonna be kickass parents, because they’ve been a kickass brother and sister, and I could not ask for any better. I owe a lot of things to a lot of people-” and he glances at Cas now, only for a fraction of a second but that’s long enough for Cas to notice- “and Sam is very much one of those people.”

Dean smiles, a huge, happy thing that he can’t seem to control. “Have a great day, little brother, and have a great life. I’m pleased to say that I’m gonna be around bugging you for a long, long time.” He pauses. “And seriously, people, ask me about the flowerbed story.”

Dean puts the microphone back on the table as the room erupts into applause. Jess looks like she might be crying- Sam does too, but that’s hardly shocking.

“That was beautiful,” Cas says quietly, and he raises a hand to Dean’s face. Dean leans into the touch, smiling lazily as one of Cas’ knuckles ghosts down the back of his neck.

“What can I say?” Dean says. “I’m that kind of guy.”

One of Sam’s college friends approaches their table, and Cas’ hand drops to close around Dean’s.

“Can I help you?” Dean says pleasantly when the friend reaches the table. Sam’s already switching from ‘tearful gratitude’ to ‘frantic pleading’ mode, and Ozzy giggles delightedly at his father’s misfortune. Jess holds him in her lap and smiles like she doesn’t ever plan to stop.

“About the flowerbed-” the guy begins.

Dean pats the empty chair next to him. “Why don’t you sit down?” he grins.

It is a good day, Dean thinks, to be alive.

* * *

  _‘My soul is alight with your infinitude of stars. Your world has broken upon me like a flood. The flowers of your garden blossom in my body. The joy of life that is everywhere burns like an incense in my heart. And the breath of all things plays on my life as on a pipe of reeds.’_

-  Rabindranath Tagore

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously a fic like this was going to come with a fairly heavy 'disclaimer' section, so I'm just going to touch on a few things here.
> 
> This fic was originally inspired by a 'take your fandom to work' prompt, that urged you to write an AU set in your place of work. I was volunteering in a Leonard Cheshire care home at the time, hence the setting. I admit, I don't know if those homes exist in the same way in America, so there's some suspension of disbelief required here!
> 
> I worked at the care home for about nine months, which is where the majority of my knowledge on this topic comes from. I also did a lot of research from various sites concerning spinal cord injuries to try and understand the medical side of things, as well as watching lots of Youtube videos and reading many forum posts to get the more personal/emotional side of it.
> 
> That being said: I have no personal experience of disability. I am able-bodied, and I apologise sincerely for any inaccuracies in my depiction of spinal cord injury, MS, or any other condition covered in the fic. I promise that any mistakes made are completely unintentional, and are not intended to be malicious in any way. 
> 
> Various characters who are able-bodied in canon are disabled in this fic, due to the nature of the setting (much as how in a high school AU, various characters are portrayed as many years younger than they are in canon). I'm sure you'll agree that this in no way devalues them as individuals, or takes away from who they are as a character.
> 
> The methods Dean uses to recover/improve his own physical and mental health are only a sample of a large range of possible treatments. For example, whilst Dean does not choose to take anti-depressants in this fic, that does not mean anti-depressants aren't an effective or worthwhile treatment for depression. 
> 
> At various points in this fic, negative attitudes are displayed towards disabled or depressed people. These views do in no way reflect my own. 
> 
> If you liked this fic, consider donating to [Leonard Cheshire Disability](http://www.lcdisability.org). I no longer volunteer at that care home, but I met some truly wonderful people there, and every penny helps!


End file.
